


30 Days.

by roryuniverse



Series: 30 Days [1]
Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: A Cure, A love story in the middle of an apocalypse, Action, Adventure, Angst, Apocalypse, Apocalyptic London, Bravery, Cliffhanger, Courage, Danger, Darkness, Decisions, Disease, Drama, Emptiness, Fanfic Series, Fear, Heartbreak, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Molly is not useless or weak, Sadness, Strength, Survival, Undying Love, Violence, a horrible mistake, a little bit of smut, apocalypse au, deserted, perseverance, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 12:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roryuniverse/pseuds/roryuniverse
Summary: Empty. Baker Street, and the entirety of the City of London, is empty. The streets are no longer busy with cars or pedestrians; it's deserted. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are the only people around. But they're not alone. The Diseased---people who have caught a strange, rabid-like disease go into a state of madness in which they have the lust to kill anyone they come across---litter the streets. And John is one of them.When Sherlock comes from being in his Mind Palace for longer than he thought for a case he was solving, he finds out that a sudden apocalypse has taken over London, and a mysterious disease has plagued half the population, and they litter the streets. To his horror, John is somehow caught with the disease. The consulting detective finds himself on the most dangerous, and overwhelming case he has ever been on, one that will test his love for John. And that case is to find a cure for his best friend before he loses him to the strange, apocalyptic disease forever. And Sherlock is prepared to walk right through hell, if it means finding a cure for the one man he loves most in the world.





	1. Deserted

**Author's Note:**

> ⚠️ ***TRIGGER WARNING*** ⚠️  
> This fanfic is rated M for a reason!  
> Will contain.....  
> -Swearing  
> -Violence  
> -Gore  
> -Drug references  
> -Sexual content  
> -Suggestions of abuse  
> If you are triggered by any of this, then I advise you to NOT read it!  
> "Why all of that, though?" you may be wondering. Well, it's the apocalypse, and in an apocalypse.....all kinds of shit can happen. Am I right? And I tend to be a little dark sometimes.  
> You can also follow this fanfic on my Wattpad. :) (I go by the same username on there.)

Sherlock Holmes slowly awoke to the sun beating down on him, as if it were trying to wake him. The curly-haired man sat up, stretching out his aching limbs, wincing slightly. He nearly forgot where he was; for only a second, he assumed he was in Florida because of the very bright, hot sun. But then he remembered. He remembered that day:  
Sherlock was given a case by DI Lestrade, and an actual good one at that. He had zoned himself into his Mind Palace one day, trying to work out the puzzle that a very clever criminal (perhaps not as clever as Moriarty himself was) had left for him. It only took a few hours later before Sherlock figured it out. "John! I've got it!" he called excitedly, his eyes fluttering open as he immediately jumped back into reality without a pause, eager to tell his flatmate and best friend the answer to the puzzle, which played a big part in the case and would help solve it altogether. He just needed John to help fill in a few blanks. Honestly, he had to admit a little bit, the sort-of-uptight man was kind of good at figuring out some of the details (that he, Sherlock Holmes himself, somehow missed. Which bothered him, but he tried to put up with it). But mostly, he just wanted John to tell him how clever he was, or something.

"John! Didn't you hear me? God, I don't feel like repeating myself--" Sherlock paused mid-sentence when he realized his friend was nowhere in the flat. He looked around for him, then figuring out he was gone, he grabbed his phone and called for him. No answer. He did recall John going out on a date, but he had promised to be back in about an hour to get information on the case. But "about an hour" had passed. Sherlock must've been in his Mind Palace for more than two hours; he wasn't exactly paying attention to the time. Picking at the puzzle for the answer had him going, so he found solving it a lot more important than keeping track of how long he was in his Mind Palace for. Sherlock scoffed, assuming John had got a bit drunk and ended up at his date's house for the night. He probably slept with the female before falling asleep. He did sometimes want a "normal" life away from the one he had with Sherlock. Whatever the hell that meant.

He sighed, shaking his head. It just didn't seem to make sense, though. John's. . . . date would've answered the phone for him, the detective was sure. She wouldn't be asleep; she would be the responsible one and stay awake, waiting for a call from his flatmate to let him know everything was fine, and not to worry. That sort of thing. Sherlock wasn't an idiot. He knew these things. It wasn't so hard to figure out. And yet. . . .  
He tried again. The phone rang, but no answer came except John's voice mail, stating to leave a message. Sherlock decided to do just that, and waited about twenty minutes. No call back. Frustrated, the detective tossed his phone on the couch. He would have to go looking for him, then. Even if he had to drag him out of his silly date's house and back to 221B. This was annoying. _Really_ annoying. He knew John better than anyone, and knew he wouldn't just do this to his own best friend. He was more loyal than anyone he knew. Obviously more than himself. Well, he had to be the more loyal one now, apparently.

Sherlock grabbed on his coat and scarf and headed out of the flat in search of John. Once he had stepped out, the first thing he noticed was how hot it was, and instinctively took off his coat and scarf, draping them over one arm. He stared up at the sky. The sun shone like an angry, fiery orb, partially covered by clouds that didn't look like rainclouds, nor thunderclouds. They were the color of ash and were nothing Sherlock had ever seen before. It was even weirder that it was supposed to be winter, and anyway he was pretty sure it didn't get this hot, like it did in places like Florida. The fucked up weather was the least of his problems. When he lowered his gaze from the strange sky, he noticed, for the first time, that Baker Street was deserted.

Completely deserted. Not one person but himself insight. No passersby on the sidewalks or crossing the streets. No cars, no anything. The once busy city was now nothing but an empty, quiet city. Despite the heat, a nice little breeze was at least offered, so Sherlock felt a bit glad about that. But everything else. . . .  
_What happened?_ he thought to himself. Had some sort of event happened? Sherlock Holmes had no belief in the supernatural, aliens,  a higher being, or the end times. And definitely not an apocalypse. But as he thought long and hard, he came to the ridiculous conclusion that this was the apocalypse, no matter how much he wanted to not believe it. But what else was he supposed to think or believe? Whatever the hell was going on, he only cared about one thing: and that one thing was finding John. That was his main focus. He could worry about everything else later, once he had found his friend. Then maybe he could tell him what was going on.

The detective began to walk down the sidewalk, trying to ignore the sun beating down on him. The thick, heavy ashclouds covered what they could of the sun, which produced that faint breeze he was grateful for. He paused for a moment, unbuttoned the three top buttons and rolled up the sleeves of his purple dress shirt, before continuing on. It was sometime later that he had realized, upon looking back, that he had walked quite far. He couldn't really see Baker Street now.

"Sir! Please, you've gotta help me!!"  
A loud, terrified voice cried. Sherlock quickly turned his head to the sound, and watched in confusion as a red-haired man came running his way. Once he had reached him, the man paused for a minute to gulp down some air before speaking, his eyes full of fear.  
"T-they're coming. . . . Please, you've gotta help me, let me in your shelter and I swear I-I'll find a way to repay you!"  
Sherlock stared at the man, eyebrows raised. He had sounded like he had lost his wits.  
"What are you talking about? Who's them? Who's coming?"  
"The Diseased! Please, help me!"  
"The Diseased?" Sherlock looked as if the redhead had told him James Moriarty came back from the dead in the form of a cat. He definitely did lose his wits.

But the redhead didn't answer, nor did he seem to pay attention to his question. He quickly turned his head to look at something else. Sherlock looked to what caught his attention, and saw in the distance of what looked like a small group of people slowly approaching. Before he could try and investigate further, and wonder if John were among them by chance, the redhead had turned to face him, grabbing him by his shirt collar and gripped tightly as if his life depended on it.  
"Please, please help me! I'm begging you! They're close, so close. . . . You've gotta help me, please sir!!"  
"Get off of me!" a very confused Sherlock shouted in surprise, pushing the man off. He gasped in what Sherlock thought to be rather dramatic, staggering back. He looked like a shaken rabbit, staring at Sherlock as if he had slapped him across the face. Sherlock had never seen someone look so terrified, except the occasional clients he had come across in his life.  
"Please, they're coming for my blood! I-I'm sorry that I had led them here, where you are, but I didn't know! Please, sir, I--"  
"What the hell are you talking about?" Sherlock growled, becoming more and more frustrated as the man appeared to confuse him further.

But once again, the man didn't seem to pay attention. He looked back at the people and watched as they came closer into view. Sherlock put his question to rest for a moment, noticing that the people carried knives. And they were coming for him and the redhead. _Running_. The redhead didn't wait for the detective to follow. He turned and began to run. Not knowing what to do, and putting his confusion aside for a moment, Sherlock ran with him. He stole a glance behind him to watch the people, about six or eight of them, give chase. Each carried a small knife, raised in one hand. A look of bloodlust were in their eyes, their mouths twisted in evil grins, as if they were on an exciting hunt. "Fucking hell," Sherlock swore under his breath, turning back to look ahead.

The detective ran as fast as his legs could carry him, feeling that rush of adrenaline. He didn't know why he felt as afraid as the redhead now; he had no clue what was going on. But something told him they were not good news. They looked to be killers, but usually the detective wasn't afraid about this sort of thing. He had several cases that involved murderers, whom most of which carried guns, not small knives. And he remembered the times he ran from (or ran after) them, he had a feeling of excitement, John running by his side. But this was something entirely different. _The Diseased_ , the redhead had told him. Were they affected by some kind of virus that made them this way, then?  
_John_.  
A feeling of dread crept inside of him. He felt even more worried about his best friend. He had to find John.

Sherlock realized he had ran ahead of the other man, more focused on finding John. But a yell for help had him pause abruptly and turn back. One of the people had grabbed the redhead's arm. "Please, sir, help me! Please!!!" the man cried desperately. Sherlock was already onto that, grabbing hold of his other arm as he reached him. His hand gripped onto his shirt more tightly than it had before, and Sherlock tried to pull him back from the person, but they were a heavily built man, a lot more stronger than Sherlock Holmes was.

And so he easily pulled the redhead away. Sherlock let out a yell of surprise, reaching out to grab for him again, but stopped and took a large step back as he watched in horror at the scene unfold before him: the larger man began to stab the redhead in the arms, and his friends came swarming over, blocking out most of the poor man as they stabbed at him, ignoring his cries of pain. "HELP ME!!!! PLEASE, HELP! GOD HAVE MERCY, PLEASE!!!!" the man screeched at the top of his lungs, sounding like a pig being butchered. But Sherlock knew there was nothing he could do. He stood there, feeling numb, finding it hard to pull his attention away from the horrific sight.

Most of these Diseased humans only laughed loudly at the man's cries, a expression of delight in each of their faces, as if they had found something very exciting. "Die! Die! Die!" they all chanted in unison over and over as they continued to stab the man. Sherlock couldn't take anymore of it. And, not wanting to be the next victim, he backed away and quickly ran while they were more distracted with their prey to pay attention to his getaway.

His stomach felt sick, and he felt horrified at what he had just witnessed. He had to find a place to hide; they won't stay busy for long. So the terrified detective ran and ran until he came across a destroyed building reduced to nothing but rubble. He rushed over to it, stopping to catch his breath. Once he had it back, he slowly sat down among the piles upon piles of building.

Sherlock tried to turn his thoughts to something else other than the horrid memory of the Diseased stabbing continuously at the redhead until he bled to death. He remembered as he ran away, he heard the man screaming in the distance, but had soon fallen silent. Of course, they must've killed him, then. As he came upon this place, silence seemed to have returned, as if nothing had ever happened. The detective shook his head, ridding his mind of the memory to think about other things. He knew that it must've been the apocalypse. And those Diseased, as the redhead called them. . . . They must have been affected by some kind of virus that caused them to act that way.

They were very different from the zombies in every apocalyptic film ever. They weren't dead, for one thing. They still had their brains. They didn't go after people to eat their brains or flesh. They still had intelligence and could still speak, from what Sherlock could tell. And they seemed mostly human, except the part where they became rabid and had the urge to kill anyone and anything. That's what the virus must've been. It was like when dogs go rabid, passing on the disease to other dogs, before dying. But those people didn't exactly look like they had gone rabid, really, they only had the want to kill, the want for bloodlust. Sherlock came to the conclusion that this was a very unusual kind of disease.

A thought made his eyes widen. _John_ , he thought to himself, _I have to find him! He could be in danger, I need to--_  
His thoughts were cut off as he felt a blow to the back of his head, and he fell over, his head hitting against a large, stony chunk of what was once the building. He watched as a figure came into view, towering over him, recognizing who it was before blacking out.  
It was John Watson.


	2. Diseased, Part I

* * *

Sherlock remembered waking up to find himself tied to a tree.

_A tree?_

Then, that's when the detective noticed his surroundings for the first time: he was in James's Park, or what was left of it, anyway. And then he remembered getting knocked out back at that destroyed building, and seeing his friend's face, the one and only person he wanted to see at that moment. . . before blacking out. There hadn't been anyone around, so it must have been John himself that had done it. He must've also tied him to this tree. But why? A horrid feeling crept down into his mind like a snake. What if John was like those others, the Diseased? Did he somehow catch the odd and terrifying virus that seemed to have been going around? And why didn't he have it? What caused it anyway? Sherlock felt frustrated. He hated being faced with so many unanswered questions. But he had never been in such a situation before. At least he had an idea for that last question; it may have had something to do with those ashclouds. It was a ridiculous theory, but it was all he could think of, for now. Sherlock squirmed in the ropes for a moment, even though that did nothing at all. John was good at tying people to trees, apparently. Really good. As he slowly stared around, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps as they crunched upon leaves (the park was littered with damn leaves everywhere, and the trees were completely bear). He turned to see John as he approached, a grin on his lips, and that killer look in his eyes. "Hello." he said, speaking in a tone that Sherlock didn't recognize as his best friend's.

"Fuck. You did become like them. . . ." Sherlock murmured in shock and horror, squirming in the ropes again in his panic. The John that wasn't the John Sherlock knew stepped closer until he was only a foot away from his prize. He held up a dagger, looking down at it as if it were something most dear and precious to him, slowly running a finger down the rusted blade. This creeped Sherlock out, and he shuddered as he watched. _Shit_. "I'm going to kill you. Well, you probably already know that. But I wanted to have you to myself, so I made sure to shut you up and dragged you out here (you were rather heavy, by hell!), found some rope, and tied you to this tree. Could've done better for my setup, but. . . This is the apocalypse, and this is all I have. I should make it quick before the others come and try to get at you. Now that wouldn't be fair, would it?" John's face leaned close to Sherlock's, and he could feel his hot breath down his neck. The detective breathed quietly but heavily, grey-blue eyes widened.

"John. . . please, don't do this! I know this isn't you." The Diseased John laughed, which sounded cold and dark and empty. "Oh, but my dear Holmes, this is me." He held up the dagger to his neck, pressing down hard. Sherlock swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing. He winced as he felt the blade bite into his pale skin. He now knew a few things: John had caught the virus. He remembered who he was, yet didn't; which was half good, but half bad. And he himself was going to die, right here, right now, in the middle of an apocalypse in the destroyed beauty of James's Park, with no-one to help him, and no help around for miles. But not unless he could persuade John back to being himself. Maybe there was a way. Maybe there wasn't at all, and he would never change. But Sherlock had to at least try. As the blade bit a little further into his skin until a scarlet drop of blood ran down his neck, he quickly burst out, "wait!" John, looking irritated, paused his actions with a sigh, as if he were interrupted from something important that didn't involve him about to kill someone. "What do you want? I'm about to kill you, and I want to make it nice and quick."

"Just. . . . give me at least three minutes. Please." The other paused for a moment, his lips turned down into a thinking frown.

"Hmmm. . . ."

Sherlock didn't realize it at first, but he had begun to hold his breath, for once praying that the Disease-turned Dr. Watson would give him a chance to speak, to talk him out of this. For once in his entire life, he felt what it was like to truly be human in the state of fear. His body trembled. His hands shook. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and not just from the unusually hot sun. It wasn't really because he came out of his Mind Palace to find London turned to shit. But to find his friend like this, the most important man in the world to him. . . . It left him feeling like a lost boy: confused, scared, horrified---all of those annoying emotions---all at once. He slowly licked his very pale lips, noticing the salty taste of sweat. It wasn't just his forehead or lips; he was nearly drenched in his own sweat. John seemed to notice, and a smile curled on his lips, as if he enjoyed the sight of seeing him in this state, as any killer would. And so, he seemed to take longer to make his decision, slowly moving the dagger from Sherlock's throat and staring at it. _Sick bastard_ , Sherlock thought to himself. But he wasn't foolish enough to say so aloud. This wasn't John Hamish Watson, the man who came from the war in Afghanistan, the man who was brave, loyal, and downright caring for the high-functioning sociopath, no matter how annoying or rude he came across as. The man who was the key to his locked, cold heart. No, this was not that man at all, but someone entirely different. And he had to do all that he could, no matter what it took, to bring the real John back. No matter what.

John had finally looked up at Sherlock, sighing softly. "Alright, fine, but just three minutes. And hurry up, I'm eager to see you choke on your own blood and die." he said. The casuality in his tone of voice made another shudder go through Sherlock. _Jesus Christ, John's more scarier like this than that one time I got him to punch me_ , he thought to himself. _But that was John then. This isn't John now._ Sherlock let out a shakey breath, doing his best to hide the relief he felt. His muscles, once tensed, slowly untensed like a rope uncoiling. He told himself to calm down, forced his emotions down to the abyss of his heart, and began to speak.

"John, I know for a fact that this is not you," he said. John rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to remark on this, but Sherlock continued before he could. "And don't tell me it is, because I know it isn't! The real John Hamish Watson was once an army doctor. He can be a bit angsty sometimes, and even boring, but he is the most brilliant man I ever knew. He has helped me see things that I never bothered to see before. He has helped to me to be more. . . . human, if you will. I'm still learning, but with John, I feel like I am starting to get the hang of it, bit by bit. He's very loyal to me, and even shows signs of being protective of me, even though I rarely deserve such loyalty or protection. I once told him that alone is all that I have, alone protects me. But he told me, 'no, friends protect people'. And I think back on that, and realize he's right. If it wasn't for Dr. Watson, if he hadn't stepped into my life by simply becoming my flatmate, then I wouldn't know where I'd be. I would've stayed lonely for most of my life. I wouldn't have found that I cared for the others; Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, and Molly. And most importantly, I wouldn't have found a best friend. A friend that I love most in the world."

Sherlock stopped speaking, licking his lips briefly before becoming quiet again. His heart beat like a drum in his chest, but not exactly the scared kind. He wasn't very good at making speeches, so he wasn't sure how that came about. He truly did care about John. But what did he mean by _love_? He felt as if it may have had a whole other meaning to it. However, he didn't ponder on it. Now was not the time. He stared at the face of the person that wasn't his friend's, waiting for an answer. Anything. Anything at all. For recognition, or for nothing. He stood on a high cliff between Life and Death: John could either come to himself, or he could just murder his own best friend and be done with it. The other stared at him silently, gripping the dagger tightly, as if fearing it might try to escape from his fingers. And then that's when Sherlock noticed that he was fighting with himself. That was a good sign; so there was a part of John in there, somewhere. This brought Sherlock to another deduction: most of the population of London were Diseased, and there could be two different kinds---one that left the person completely mad, the other that only put the person in the state for a certain amount of time. Sherlock Holmes honestly had no idea how he was coming up with these theories. But it helped him to have some hope. He still didn't understand why he hadn't been affected, especially because John had touched him. Or maybe it didn't work that way. Or maybe he was somehow immune to the mysterious disease.

Silence took control of the park, like darkness taking over light. The only sound that could be heard was the faint whisper of the breeze, and the leaves rustling in response upon the deserted, littered ground. Another sound that Sherlock could hear was the thumping of his own heart in his ears. After all John and him had went through. . . . This just had to work. It _had_ to. He needed John now, more than ever. John continued to grip the dagger with great force, his knuckles turning red and trembling slightly. After a moment, he slowly shook his head with a soft chuckle and brought the rusted blade back to his pale throat. "No," Sherlock whispered.

 _No._ This couldn't be.

_No!_

"John, no!" Sherlock yelled as the dagger pressed against his skin once more. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the feel of the blade to slice through his neck. Waiting to choke on his own blood and die there, tied to the skeleton of a tree in a dark, apocalyptic world. To leave this place and lose John to something he never expected to face before. He wasn't really afraid of death. But he wasn't ready to leave John behind. And definitely not like this. Not with his best friend and flatmate being the one to end him. To end him not as himself, but as this monster that the disease made him to become.

But the worst never came.

"Sherlock?" a voice spoke. And it sounded like the real John the detective knew.


	3. Diseased, Part II

"Sherlock?" the voice said again.

Sherlock's eyes quickly opened at the hopeful sound. And, sure enough, it was John. The dagger was no longer being pressed against his skin. He had a small cut left in his neck, but nothing serious.

He was okay. He wasn't going to die; he was going to live. His persuasion must've worked, because John stared at him with that unmistakeable look of recognition in his eyes, the bloodlust once there gone. The dagger slipped from his fingers, falling to the leaf-littered ground with a thud, interrupting the quiet of some of the long-dead leaves. "Yes, it's me, Sherlock. I'm here." Sherlock confirmed in a soft tone, staring back at John.

"Oh, God, Sherlock..... I'm so sorry!" the other said, his voice choked by a sob. "Oh God. . . Oh God. . . " He held his hands to his face, shaking like a leaf. "I-I was going to--Jesus."

"Yes, but you didn't. Everything's okay now." Sherlock tried to reassure him, allowing the panicking blonde-haired man to slowly begin to collect his bearings. John slowly lowered his hands to stare at his best friend again. Those grey-blue eyes that reminded him of a piece of the universe, his unusually pale skin, that mop of untidy, dark hair (which now looked in an even worse mess), those famous prominent cheekbones. . . . He would recognize this face anywhere. He knew it so well, that it was forever engraved in his mind. And his deep, baritone voice, so different from any other voice he heard, was unmistakeable. That's what mainly brought him out of the diseased state. A real part of him heard it, loud and clear like the clock of the Big Ben striking the next hour and ringing throughout the city. And that real part of him struggled to the surface, through the darkness that he was trapped under, and keeping his focus on that voice, managed to free himself. Yes, he was free; no longer in the state. For now. He wasn't completely recovered, but knew there were some things that had to be done before he could take time to do so. He---and Sherlock---may be running out of time. One of Them could be coming for the two friends. This area seemed mostly empty and quiet, but perhaps that was mainly because there were no people for the Diseased to kill. But some may come sniffing over here eventually, and soon. John had to get himself and Sherlock out of here, and fast. Then, and only then, would he try to actually recover from all this.

And so John reached down to pick up the dagger. Holding it in his hand again made a shudder go through him at what he was going to do with it previously. But he shook the thought away. Now he was going to use it to free Sherlock. That other part of him was shoved down him somewhere, unable to resurface at the moment. _Focus_ , he told himself. _Focus._

The doctor (well, as he once was before this all happened) got straight to work on cutting the ropes holding Sherlock. Once he was finished, the other embraced him in a tight hug. John looked surprised for a second before returning the embrace, relieved to know that his friend and flatmate was alright, that he didn't kill him or seriously injure him. But then he reminded himself to focus on the task, and quickly pulled out of the hug.

"We need to get out of here, and quickly. The Diseased. . . . Some of them could be coming." Sherlock didn't question it, only gave a silent nod in response and ran with him, holding onto his hand tightly, as if afraid to lose him to that horrible darkness again. They definitely should get somewhere safe. Or at least, somewhere close to safe. He had many questions that John may or may not be able to answer, but that had to wait until they got the hell out of there. The two ran through the eerie park, John leading the way. The silence of the place was loud in his ears. It wasn't long until they left James's Park behind them. Sherlock felt relieved. They came upon the streets of the equally quiet city, and John led his friend to a battered storefront. Thankfully, most of the building was intact, so it could be used as shelter. He noticed that not every building surrendered itself to whatever turned London upside down like this. He watched as John eyed the window, carefully looking inside. It was quite dark in there, but the fact that it was utterly silent told him enough that no Diseased people lingered about inside, waiting for a non-Diseased person to kill. He confirmed this to Sherlock with a nod of his head, gesturing to go inside. He was afraid if he spoke aloud and shattered the silence, then others would hear it. And of course, not the good kind of others.

Sherlock followed John inside of the store and was greeted with a nice rush of coolness, so much different from what he felt from the air outside. For a moment, he was reminded of something, and panicked: where was his coat and scarf? Had he left them behind? He may need them both, him and John. But he felt a sense of relief when he noticed John had both his coat and scarf tucked under one arm tightly. He must've not noticed before; he was more focused on getting out of that dreary park. He took some time to take in his new surroundings. It looked to be a clothing store, eneveloped in darkness and that same irritating, loud silence. Undoubtedly, the store was destroyed mainly from the inside: all manners of clothing, objects, glass, etc, covered most of the floor. It was even dirtier than his flat. But he couldn't be choosy or picky. This was the apocalypse. And this seemed to be the best kind of shelter right now.

John allowed a loud sigh to pass from his lips as he slid down against a wall, disrupting a pile of books on a table that stood nearby, toppling over with a sound that chased away the deathly quiet. But he ignored it, burying his face into his hands. Sherlock sat himself next to the retired army doctor, wrapping a reassuring arm around his shoulders.

"I know it's not your fault," he said, looking at John. "I know that wasn't the real you."

"But I could've killed you--"

"But you didn't."

John didn't reply, lowering his hands from his face and staring at the dirtied floor. "You didn't seem like one of. . . . of Them, if you snapped out of it. Why?" Sherlock pressed gently, hoping to distract his friend's attention from what happened earlier. John looked up at him. "Because I'm not fully Diseased. Only half." Sherlock looked confused, so he explained further, "there are two kinds of Diseased, I found out: one that the disease has completely taken over someone, the other the disease doesn't take over someone completely. It can only put them in the state of the virus, but for a certain amount of time. It can be controlled, but not very much. Being half is a way to. . . ." he trailed off, turning to look away from Sherlock. No, he couldn't tell him that bit. He was afraid Sherlock would press him to continue what he didn't want to tell him, but to his surprise, the detective didn't. Instead, he asked, "How do you know all of this?"

John gave a tiny chuckle, but it sounded empty to himself. There was nothing to laugh about anymore, in this now-desolate world. "I don't know. I just learned about it through other people, and made sure to remember it."

"Well, John, we'll be here for a while, because I have many unanswered questions. I came from my Mind Palace today to an empty London and came to the ridiculous conclusion that we are in an apocalypse. The Diseased part of yourself confirmed that to me. I also met this redhead man who came to me begging for help, but got stabbed to death by a group of one of Them. The fully Diseased kind, I think. And I feel so lost. I don't even know how long I was in my Mind Palace for. . . . Not enough to come back to all of this, surely?"

John looked at him sadly, frowning, a look of disbelief in his brown eyes. How did Sherlock not know? He couldn't have been lost in his Mind Palace for _that_ long. Perhaps he didn't remember.

"Sherlock. London has been like this for thirty days now."


	4. Large Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, this is not a Doctor Who reference, nor does the Doctor randomly show up in the middle of the fanfic. I just don't want people to be misled by the title of the chapter, haha!

Sherlock sat quietly as he remembered all that happened. It was only a day ago, and yet it felt longer. He supposed another strange thing about this apocalypse was it had that feel as if days were shorter, or dragged on; depending on the situation. He stared around him. He and John were taking shelter inside of an upturned, large box. It was rather unusual, finding a random, large box in the middle of the empty city, but there was nothing usual in this world anymore. Well, at least in here, London. He wasn't sure about the whole of Britain, or the entire world in general. It was all still very confusing; nobody was given a warning.

_30 days._

30 days since he had been living in this very broken London, and he didn't know the entire time. John couldn't explain to him where he was that whole time, to perhaps give reason to why he didn't remember, because he had suddenly gone Diseased mode and attacked him. After some difficulity, the detective managed to get him down and knock him out cold. He had a feeling that the scuffle between them may have had attracted unwanted attention (given how ridiculously quiet London was), so he dragged John out with him, rushing to find another shelter to at least rest in for the night, as the sky had begun to darken and he didn't doubt that's when many of the Diseased came out to hunt. He noticed that they weren't just men or women; there were also children. Once, upon seeking shelter, he had come upon a little girl staring up at him with that bloodlust look in her eyes, that same look like the others. He had to shut her up quickly before continuing on his way. She was quick, and smart; she would've poked his eyeball out with her little fork and alerted more of her kind with a loud announcement, if he hadn't damaged her windpipe. And left her there. Left her there to die. But he had no choice. He and John lived in a world now where you had to kill to survive---or else _you'll_ be the one to be killed.

Another time, when he found the large box that looked like good enough shelter, Sherlock ran into a woman carrying a baby, whom looked to be about two years old. He wondered why the Diseased woman hadn't killed her own child, and then realized the child was Diseased, too. He came to the conclusion that the Diseased didn't bother with their own kind. Possibly because they were all mostly very aggressive and had no fear of anything, and they knew that humans without the disease feared them, and that's what they liked to see. The woman had slowly grinned at him as she held her baby. The infant glared at the tall, curly-haired man, his eyes matching his mother's killer ones. It made Sherlock tremble, to see an innocent little child with that look to kill. It nearly turned his legs to jelly. But then he remembered John was there, still knocked out good, and he needed to get them both to shelter. "You do know me and my precious darling here have to kill you, right? But don't worry: Charlie only wants to stop your breathing. . . ."

_Jesus._

Sherlock shoved the woman aside aggressively, taking the woman and her child by surprise. The box wasn't too far off, he could make it. And, thank God, he had. He had made it, somehow, by some miracle (even though he didn't believe in silly miracles. But when you were in an apocalypse, he supposed that was plausible). The box had offered enough space for both him and his still-unconscious best friend. And so, that's where they slept. When Sherlock had woken this morning, he noticed John sleeping peacefully, which meant he had gone out of the state during the night. The man laid curled up in a ball, sleeping as if nothing ever happened last night, as if the world hadn't become a greater shade darker. John's state could be unpredictable, he realized; it's something he would have to put up with until he found out when he did go into that state, and the time he got out of it. He only knew that knocking him out or persuading him would snap him back to his normal self, but Sherlock knew he couldn't just rely on those two things alone.

He leaned against the back of the box, staring at the empty, gloomy world before him. A light, eerie morning mist had suddenly and slowly appeared in the air, bringing a cold touch to the place. Sherlock thought it was quite nice, even though it was rather cold. The mist seemed to reach its icy fingers to the sky, blocking out the raging, bright orb that dominated the weather for the most part. But not this time. This time, it was faced with the unexpected ghostly mist, and reluctantly bowed down to its control. The detective found himself quickly putting on his coat and scarf. He knew he would need it. As for John, he supposed he needn't share with him; he had his cardigan, thankfully.

As the silence crept on and on, and John continued to sleep, Sherlock decided to try and remember all that happened way before. He had to try. He _needed_ to know. There was just no way he had been in his Mind Palace that entire time, for a month, solving a case. He made certain that he and John were still safe in the box before allowing himself to relax, slowly closing his eyes. He then entered his Mind Palace and sought the answer.


	5. Mind Palace

_It was quiet, and felt empty. And everything was dark. . . ._

Why is everything so dark?

 _And then Sherlock Holmes knew why: his eyes were closed._ Obviously _. The detective's eyes slowly opened to a blurry-filled world, but his vision became clearer. He looked around, noticing he was in a room of white walls and laid in a bed too uncomfortable and not very homely to be his own, and the room smelled like a hospital: medicine, the sick, depression, and gloom. It nearly overwhelmed his senses. Of course, it was clear now where he was---a hospital._

But why?

 _Sherlock turned to watch as the door of his hospital room opened, and John Watson stepped in. He had a concerned look on his face, but he also looked angry. This confused the other. Why did he look like he wanted to hug him, but choke him at the same time? Most importantly, what the hell was going on, and why was he in the hospital?_ I want answers, not be taken into the hospital. Stupid Mind Palace _, Sherlock thought to himself bitterly, feeling impatient. He really didn't have time for this. But he allowed his impatience to simmer down a little as he watched his best friend approach, genuinely curious at the retired army doctor's mix of emotions. He had grabbed a chair and dragged it over close to the detective's bed and sat down with a heavy sigh through his nose, as if he had a very long day. "It's a good thing you're awake," he said. "How are you feeling?"_

_Sherlock blinked a couple of times, still as puzzled as ever. What did John mean?_

_"I'm fine, of course."_

_To his surprise, John's lips pursed in what looked like irritation. "No you're not, Sherlock, stop lying. You can't lie to a fucking doctor."_

_"I don't know what you're talking about, John. . . ."_

_Dr. Watson gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "So the drug you took made you lose your memory too, huh? Is that what you're saying? You know, Sherlock, it's really not fair. It's not fair to make me worry like this. So I have a damn right to be pissed off with you. The least you can do is show some sympathy, instead of being so. . . ._ Sherlock-ish _and talking to me like I'm an idiot. Because I'm your best friend. Not an idiot."_

_Sherlock relasped into silence. He wasn't really sure how to respond, because he honestly had no idea what John was talking about. He had never seen his flatmate look so. . . hurt. Past those eyes of anger, he saw his world crashed down. But why? What had he, Sherlock Holmes, done to make him feel this way?_

A drug. He mentioned a drug. _But he didn't remember taking any kind of drug. John gave a huff of frustration at Sherlock's still puzzled expression. He turned his head away, staring at nothing in particular, if only to avoid his friend's beautiful eyes, once lively but now dull. "They said you'd be going into a coma soon. . . . Whatever kind of drug you took. . . It's slowly putting you into one. That's what the doctor said. The one prescribed for you, I mean."_

 _"But I don't have a prescribed doctor._ You're _my doctor(technically speaking)."_

_John bit his lip, trying to tame the fiery anger that threatened to boil over. "Well, I prescribed one for you on the spot, Sherlock, because I honestly don't know what was wrong with you! You have been keeping this secret from me for two bloody weeks! I have emotions, alright, I did go into shock. A doctor can't be of help if he's in shock!"_

_"Why were you in shock?" It struck Sherlock as odd that John would ever go into shock. He was trained in the military to be tougher than nails, to have nerves of steel, so that when he was placed into the battlefield, he didn't become paralyzed with fear at the sound of gunshots and screaming, or faint at the sight of wounded or dying men. So why did he act this way? This didn't seem like the John he knew. The John he knew would be level-headed with a calm mind as he worked on saving Sherlock. Whatever it was Sherlock needed saving from. John had become silent for a long time before speaking._

_"You were not yourself, Sherlock. I wasn't expecting--I didn't know what to do. . . ."_

_The detective stared at him with confusion filled in his grey-blue eyes._ Not myself?

_John hugged himself tightly, as if remembering the memory was too much to bear. "They were going to lock you up," he continued. "It was that bad. But I refused it. I wanted you to be put into hospital first. So I called an ambulance. Of course, you gave them a thin time, so. . . . I had to knock you out. I'm sorry." He paused for a minute, licking his dry lips. He looked tired. Exhausted. "I told Lestrade to give you some time to stay in hospital, to see how you recovered, and that you didn't really harm me. He gave me a chance, but there wasn't much he could give, but he would try to convince the rest of Scotland Yard. Everyone had begrudgingly agreed; even Donovan and Anderson. Thus, you were put into hospital for quite a while and still here. . . . Whatever drug you put yourself through, it was a lot worse than you think. Not only did it almost land you in prison, and land you in the hospital, but now you will be going into a coma, and the doctor, everyone else, doesn't know how long._ **I** _don't even know how long."_

_Sherlock was quiet for a very long time. He didn't understand. . . . What was this drug that he took which seemed to turn him into someone dangerous? John slowly looked over at him. He licked his lips again and gave a soft sigh. "As much as I hate you at the moment, Sherlock, know that I'm still very worried for you. I care for you. A lot. So. . . . Don't let that bloody coma take you away from me forever, alright? Because I. . . . I can't live without you." The detective wasn't sure how to respond. He looked surprised as John grabbed his cold hand in his, squeezing tightly. "Don't do this to me, not again. No more tricks. You don't have to play dead anymore."_

_"John, I--"_

_"Just get better. I fucking swear, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do not. . . . Do not do this to me. Come back so that I could punch you and-and make up with you." Before Sherlock could try to speak again (feeling beyond baffled by John's choked, emotional words), his best friend let go of his hand, stood, and turned to walk out. He refused to look back. He just couldn't. Or else he would just break down, and Sherlock didn't deserve that yet. Not after what he had done to himself. The consulting detective silently watched John leave the room, closing the door behind him. After the sound of the door closing, the world inside of the sickly-scented, white-walled room fell back into silence. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, taking in everything he had just learned._

What have I done?


	6. Monster

_As Sherlock laid there upon the hospital bed, he closed his eyes._

Answers. I need answers! _he thought to himself, searching deep, deep inside of his Mind Palace. The next time he opened his eyes, he was back at 221B. John was sitting in his chair, reading the papers. The detective began to step over to him, to ask what this was all about, but paused in shocked confusion, as he watched himself walk into the living room._

Myself. Don't tell me. . . . I'm having a vision in my Mind Palace? You have to be kidding me.

_But this was no joke. It was clearly a vision. Sherlock was beginning to think that perhaps he had gotten himself high before going into his Palace, but then remembered he didn't have any cannibis, or any kind of drug, for him to get this way. There was nothing left of the apocalypse except a dark, empty world. All he had was his coat and scarf, and even his coat's pockets were dark and empty. He rolled his eyes, but decided to go with this. . . . vision. Besides, it may have more answers than the whole hospital thing. He watched himself approach John, his own face devoid of any expression, as always. He never really noticed how much of a machine he looked like. But that didn't really matter right now._

_"John," the other Sherlock spoke, "how long will you be on your date tonight?" His flatmate paused his reading and looked up at him. "I won't be gone long. But don't worry, it won't be too late. Wouldn't want to miss out on the case." He turned back to the papers, his words sounding more distracted than excited._

_"You're not really excited, are you?"_

_"To be honest, no, Sherlock. For once in my life, I get to have a date without you interrupting. And this time, my date doesn't have to worry about 'competing with Sherlock Holmes'."_

Ouch.

_But himself didn't seem to be bothered by this remark. "Alright. Well, have a good time tonight. I will be working on figuring out the puzzle of the case." John raised his head once more, staring at the detective with a brow raised. "Sherlock, you're acting a little odd today. 'Have a good time tonight', really? Usually it's, 'Hurry the hell up, dates are stupid'."_

_Sherlock had paused, as he was begininng to walk away, and turned to look at John, blinking his eyes. "I have never said that before." The other sighed, rolling his eyes. "You know what I mean, Sherlock. Anyway, are you up to something?"_

_"No, I'm not. You sound like a child. Children like to sniff their dirty little noses into everything. Never understood their purpose."_

_"Sherlock. You_ were _a child once."_

_"I'm not anymore."_

_"Actually. . . . You kind of still act like one."_

_Sherlock merely grunted in response. "I'm not up to anything," he replied, before turning to leave upstairs to the bedroom. John shook his head, turning his attention back to the papers. Curious of what himself was really up to, the real Sherlock followed himself upstairs. He stood in the doorway, watching as the other Sherlock stepped up to the drawer, opening it and taking out a small, plastic bag. He watched as he took an object out of the bag. A syringe. His other self observed the syringe carefully, nodding his head in what looked like satisfaction. Sherlock stepped closer to see what he was so satisfied about. He couldn't see him, of course, so it wouldn't be any harm. He noticed that the syringe was filled with some kind of liquid. . . . Some sort of drug._

Could it be the one John was talking about in the hospital?

_The other Sherlock then paused, frowning. For a moment, the real Sherlock was afraid that he could see him. But that turned out not to be the reason as he muttered to himself, "Still needs a bit of work. . . I'll see what I can add at the morgue."_

_What to add from the morgue?_ What, am I some kind of bloody mad scientist now? _Sherlock knew he could be mad, but not this mad. He began to fit the puzzle pieces together: he had made a concoction, a drug of his own design. He may have ran out of things to occupy his mind, and John wasn't having any of his drug or nicotine patches nonsense. So this was his way of trying to get it back. By making a substitute. But how did it make him into what John had told him? He knew he would be likely to find out the answer tonight, which he assumed that's when himself would go out to the morgue, as John would be on his date, so he wouldn't really be suspicious._

 _Sherlock didn't feel like waiting, and yet, he couldn't leave his Mind Palace either. As if this vision of his kept him back, eager for him to see what would happen next; not wanting him to miss out on anything. So, with some restlessness, the consulting detective waited. Surprisingly, it wasn't that long of a wait. Soon, John was heading out, letting himself know, and once the flat was silent and still without his friend's presence, the other Sherlock grabbed on his coat and scarf and headed out to the morgue. The real one followed hurriedly. The other made his way to St. Bart's Hospital, where he went straight to the morgue. Nobody seemed to notice him pass by, or even care. As both entered the morgue, Sherlock realized Molly Hooper wasn't around. Whatever the past him was doing, was something he couldn't even let Molly in on._ Great. What have you done now, Sherlock?

_The detective watched as he stepped up to the counter, of which three different shapes of cylinders sat. He stepped up a little closer to watch him very carefully empty the syringe of the liquid inside of the thin, skinny cylinder, then shook it a bit before grabbing a bigger one, which was filled with a different, clearer liquid. He poured a drop inside of it, but paused for a minute, as if thinking. He then gave a shrug and poured three more drops. "Couldn't hurt," he told himself. After he was finished, he poured the updated concoction slowly and carefully back into the syringe before pocketing it and leaving behind the cylinders, the morgue. Sherlock stared in silence before hurriedly following himself again._

_Back to the flat they went, where himself sat on the bed. Sherlock watched as he allowed himself to relax before pulling out the syringe and poking it into his skin above his wrist, slowly pushing down to get the liquid into his system. Once finished, he pulled it out gently, hiding it underneath his pillow and laid his head back, eyes closing, waiting for the drug to take over. Sherlock bit his lip. He couldn't believe himself right now. Had he really done this? To John? Was he that obsessed with drugs to the point where he had to make his own concoctions in order to get what he wanted? He almost felt sick. For once, he understood. For once, he felt angry at himself. He wondered how could John forgive him now, even in the middle of the apocalypse, being Half-Diseased. He slowly took a step back from the resting form of himself, his breathing slightly heavy at his panic. A flood of emotions crowded him all at once, threatening to drown him in them. He wanted to leave this vision now, he wanted to wake back up, even if that meant returning to that empty, loud silent London again--_

_But it wouldn't let him. The vision made him stay. But he had all of his answers. He knew what may be coming next, he had no need to see it. Nor did he want to watch it. He couldn't._

I need to get out of here.

 _However, the vision held him firm in his Mind Palace, as if forcing him to watch what would happen next, as if making him remember what he had done._ Watch _, it seemed to growl at him._ Watch _._

_Without any choice, Sherlock watched. Watched as the chaos slowly unfolded._

_"Sherlock, I'm home!" the unmistakable sound of John's return could be heard downstairs. "Sherlock?" his flatmate called again. The detective looked at himself, looking dead to the world. He wished he could get him to wake, but knew he couldn't. This was only a vision. He wouldn't be able to even touch him. He then turned to the door, listening to the sound of John's footsteps walking up the stairs._

_"I'm sorry I took a little longer, I--"_

_John paused mid-sentence when he noticed his best friend in all the world passed out on the bed. He didn't look so good. He hurried over to his side. "Sherlock?" He shook him, once, twice, then hit his face a little. No answer from the other. "Sherlock!" John yelled, shaking him again, harder this time. Still, no answer except silence, the detective's face looking paler than usual._

_"Oh, God. . . ." John began to panic, his heart racing in his chest. He pulled the pillow from underneath Sherlock's head, even though this did nothing to disturb his slumber. But that's when he noticed the syringe as it rolled out and onto the floor. He slowly leaned down and picked it up, staring at it. And then, realization hit him. He wasn't stupid. He figured out what was going on. "Not up to anything?" he muttered to himself, turning his attention back to Sherlock. "Sherlock, why? Why did you do this? I know you did something to. . . . to get back on your bloody drugs! So what is this, some sort of concoction?"_

_John knew Sherlock wouldn't answer. He felt rage inside of him, ready to erupt. But he was also worried, scared, and panicking for his friend all at once. He put the syringe aside on the bedside table. And focused on getting Sherlock back into reality. The real Sherlock watched as he rushed out of the open door of the room and soon came back with a pitcher of water, pouring some of it on the sleeping detective's face. "Sherlock, come on, get up!"_

_After a moment, he awoke, making a spluttering noise as if he were being drowned, even though it was only water being splashed onto his face. John paused as he watched, relief flooding him. But then he remembered what his friend had done, and the relief was replaced with anger. He placed the pitcher on the table. "Why, Sherlock?" he spoke, staring down at him with narrowed eyes. Sherlock noticed his brown eyes were mixed with hurt._

Just like at the hospital.

_The other Sherlock stared up at his flatmate and friend with bloodshot eyes. He slowly sat up, not bothering to answer his question, it seemed. "Sherlock. . . . Answer me. Now."_

_No response._

_"Sherlock!"_

_Suddenly, without warning, the detective sprung from the bed and shoved John back into the wall, grabbing at his neck. The other's eyes widened in shock, and he struggled, trying to pry his pale, cold hands from his throat. "What the hell, Sherlock? What's happened to you?!"_

_He managed to shove him away and turned, backing away to the room door, his eyes now filled with confusion and fear. The detective stared at him silently. "What's happened to me?" he said, which sounded nothing like himself. "Nothing, really. Just want to kill you. I'm sorry our friendship has to end this way, Dr. John Watson. . . . But it has been nice sharing a flat with you."_

_John's eyes widened. "What--?" He stepped back more, until he was out of the room. Sherlock slowly followed, a smirk on his face. The real Sherlock quickly rushed over, wishing he could stop this, willing himself to, but knew he couldn't. He cried out a loud, "No!" as the messed up version of himself lunged for the man he loved._

_Suddenly, he was no longer in the flat, but back at the hospital. But this time, it wasn't he himself in the bed._

I'm still having a vision _, he thought to himself._

_But his other self was in the bed. He slowly stepped up to him, eyes widened, still recovering from what he had witnessed._

Monster. I'm a monster. I was the cause of all this.

_And he knew he was paying dearly for his idiotic mistakes. Because he noticed the other him was in a very, deep sleep. In a coma._

_A realization struck him, and he almost fell over at the thought of it. This whole time, he had been in a coma for 30 days. When he awoke from it, he thought he was in his Mind Palace, and only remembered the case. The drug was left out of his memory, forgotten, as if he had accidentally deleted it._

I'm a monster.

_Sherlock Holmes now had a little idea of what that disease came from. It was his fault. But how did it get into the air, affecting many people? He was ready to wake up, but the vision wasn't finished._

One more thing, _it seemed to tell him._


	7. Blue Roses

_Sherlock Holmes reluctantly decided to stay for whatever "one more thing" this ridiculous vision wanted to show him. As before, when the last time he had been here, the hospital room was silent. He watched himself sleep, numb to the sick-scented and quiet room, numb to the world. He turned his head from his coma self to watch as John stepped in, followed by a woman with short, blonde hair and big, blue eyes, a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder and a bouquet of flowers held in the other. That must be John's date, the consulting detective deduced. Judging by the way she stood close to him, it looked like they were already beginning to be in a girlfriend-boyfriend relationship; which meant this happened some weeks after all that happened. Sherlock felt a strange feeling inside of him as he watched the two._

Jealousy?

_Why was he jealous of John? Why did he wish it was that woman in the coma instead of him?_

_Sherlock shook the thoughts away, trying to focus. He couldn't let stupid emotions distract him. He watched as John turned to look at his date, an expression of warm gratefulness in his eyes for her presence. He then gave a very slight smile as he looked at the flowers, shaking his head a little and turning away. "Sherlock wouldn't care for the flowers," he told her, seeming to speak more to himself. "He would think it's a 'pointless tradition'." His date smiled, and when John turned to look back at her again, the detective could tell by his eyes that she seemed to light up the dull, grey hospital room and give it color. Sherlock hated that. He didn't know why._

_"Sorry, I jut thought I'd buy them anyway. Not really a waste of money; only costed a few pounds."_

_"He would say even spending a few pounds on him is still a waste of money. He's like that."_

_"Sounds like a fun man. I can hardly wait to meet him. When, you know, he's not in a coma."_

_John became silent at this. He turned to look at Sherlock in his coma state. He licked his lips slowly before speaking. "Mary. . . ." he said in a low voice, finally using her name. "He may never wake up." Mary frowned sadly, wrapping an arm around him. "Oh, John, don't think that way. . . You've told me plenty about him, and one of the things you told me is he's stubborn."_

Stubborn? _Sherlock scoffed to himself._

_"If he's so 'stubborn', then I'm pretty certain he'll wake up from this."_

_Sherlock blinked, surprised at her words. He couldn't help but have a small liking for John's new date, and even wished a tiny bit that he would keep this one. Just a tiny bit. John gave a soft sigh before nodding in agreement with Mary. "You're right." He then paused. "I'm just scared that I might. . . . I might lose him."_

_"You won't."_

_The retired army doctor became silent again. The two then walked up to the detective's bed, and Mary placed the bouquet of flowers on the little table next to him. He noticed they were roses. Blue roses. A bright color that filled the room, and yet, a color that reminded Sherlock Holmes of the emotions he had in his heart. Emotions that he hated and wanted to throw away. He wished he could throw away that pointles bouquet of blue roses, too. John and Mary stood there for a while in silence, arms wrapped around each other as they looked at the peaceful-looking detective. Time seemed to pass by fast, and visiting hours were over. The two left, and John did so with more reluctance, Sherlock noticed._

_As they walked out the door, he stepped over to look down at the fresh bouquet, seeming to mock at him with its bright and beautiful presence. Gentle, clear beads of dew trailed down the flowers, making their beauty all that more annoying. He stood, quiet, still staring at them._

_And then, suddenly, it happened. First, the lights. Then the loud_ boom _outside. And then the floor seemed to shake beneath him._


	8. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just would like to apologize for making Sherlock more....."hateable" than he was in the beginning of the show. *cringe*  
> But sometimes you've got to make sacrifices in order to make the story interesting. I also wanted Sherlock to be more human in this fanfic, making a big mistake and realizing what he had done is terribly wrong. 
> 
> Also, if you're curious as to why I chose a bouquet of blue roses in the last chapter, it's because red roses is such a common and widely-used thing to describe things such as blood, deadly beauty, and so on. That being said, I wanted to try to do something different. Because I'm a difficult person.
> 
> The blue roses symbolize the emotions of what Sherlock feels. And because it's such a bright colored flower, like the sky, so it lit up the dull and depressing hospital room. I also chose the color blue because Sherlock has blue eyes(well, sometimes, in different parts of light). I wanted to do something unique and meaningful to the chapter.

_Sherlock looked confused as the floor shook, trying to make him lose his balance. He kept himself steady by grabbing onto the bedside table, where the blue roses sat. But the slight tremor in the floor grew bigger, as the earthquake (or whatever it was) craved more attention, causing the table to tremble as well and the bouquet of roses fell to the floor, scattering blue petals about. The detective heard the angry rumbles of thunder outside and nearly felt blinded by the sudden flash of lightning. And then, as quick and sudden as the lightning came, it felt as if he was no longer there, keeping his balance.  
_

_He saw only darkness. Pitch black darkness. He couldn't move or speak, but nor did he feel like doing either._

Am I dead, or dying? _he wondered to himself. Whatever it was, he wanted to stay like this. He slowly slipped into this dead-like feeling, never wanting to wake up again. If this was truly death, then it felt. . . . peaceful. He didn't deserve such a peaceful death, though. After all he had done. . . But the darkness soothed him, embracing him in its arms, and his mind hesitantly obliged._ I want to stay like this. I don't want to think anymore. I just want to--

_"Sherlock!!!"_

_A voice yelled suddenly in the depth of the darkness. But where was it coming from? And it almost sounded familiar, although no matter how hard he tried to remember who the voice was, the detective couldn't. As if memories were blocked from his mind._

_"Sherlock!!!"_

_The voice yelled again, sounding more urgent, desperate. As if it was trying to reach him. And it was only then that Sherlock realized it was his name._

_Someone was calling his name._

_At that moment, it was as if his mind slowly turned on, and he was able to hear the voice more clearly. The memories were no longer blocked from his mind, flooding him so fast that he could only take in one at a time at a slow pace. He couldn't get himself to wake up, but he did hear the voice clearly now, and figured it was close by. The voice belonged to his best friend._

John _._

_"John, just let him be, he won't wake up. We have to get out of here!" a female voice yelled. Sherlock noticed it as Mary's._

_"No, I'm not leaving him!" John cried. Sherlock felt very confused._ Why are they yelling anyway, and what do they mean? _As if hearing his thoughts, the answer came to him: his ears, which felt as if they were mostly stuffed by water, slowly cleared further, taking in more than just the voices of John and Mary. Now he was able to hear the raging thunder and lightning. That also sounded familiar. And then he remembered. . ._

_The detective was in a vision, which had taken him to the hospital room, where the past version of himself laid in the bed in a coma. And then that's when he figured it out: he was now his past self. He remembered this had happened once, before all of this. When he was himself in the hospital bed and talking to John. This whole vision thing was very bizarre and overwhelming. He couldn't completely understand it. But he wanted answers, so this was what he got, he supposed. With all of this figured out, Sherlock knew that he was in a coma, since he was himself during this time. And there was a big storm outside. Bigger than any storm he had known, a storm that made it feel as if the world---or, at least here, in London---was coming to an end. And John was trying to get him awake, so that they could all escape from the worst that may be coming. But Sherlock couldn't wake up. His mind didn't want him to, and his body refused to move. . ._

_Because it had forgotten how to._

_"Sherlock, please!!!" Sherlock heard tears in the desperate cry of his best friend. He also heard the sound of thunder roaring louder, drowning out another yell from John. He felt himself being shook, and knew the doctor was shaking him awake, but still he wouldn't budge. No matter how hard he tried to break the surface of the darkness, he couldn't. After a time, he heard nothing but the horrific storm outside, washing over any other noise like a giant wave. He felt the hospital bed he was lying in tremble. As more time passed, he felt himself slowly sinking back into the peaceful, trance-like sleep. And then, complete silence._

_About 20 minutes later, Sherlock's eyes were finally opening. As his vision began to clear, he noticed he was still there, in the hospital bed. Silence had taken over completely. The detective slowly sat up, realizing he could finally move now. The dull room was in a mess; it must've been from the sudden, terrible storm. The bedside table was knocked over on its side, crushing the bouquet of blue roses under it. The glass of the large windows had been shattered so that Sherlock felt a slight breeze coming from outside. The door to his room was wide open, groaning a little as it kept itself in place even after staying on one hinge._

_Sherlock stood with some difficulty from the bed, his body feeling as if he hadn't used it in years. Once his mind had remembered how to move, he began to walk away from the bed, taking his time so that he didn't fall over. He finally reached the door, stepping out into a long hallway. It looked like the hospital was in a mess, too. Whatever this storm was, it meant business. As the detective walked further, holding onto the wall for some support, he almost tripped over something in the way, nearly losing his balance. He took a step back and paused, looking down at what could've caused him to fall over. It was a body. A lifeless body, the head cracked open and leaving a pool of bright red blood underneath it. Sherlock stared down at it, a look of shock in his features._

What the hell happened? _he thought to himself._


	9. Fire

_Sherlock Holmes had gotten over his initial shock of the dead body and continued to make his way down the quiet, empty hall, still holding onto the wall to steady himself; his legs still quivered as if they had turned into jelly. He was going slow, but had finally made it to the end of the hall, and paused there, looking round at the waiting room, which looked as if it had been ransacked. A few bodies littered about, giving it an eerie and almost haunted-esque appearance. Sherlock made an effort to ignore them, trying to avoid the thoughts:_ What if John or Mary is one of those bodies? What if they never made it out? _But then he had to remind himself that he was only in a vision, that he wasn't really there; this body of his was from the past. The coma had made his mind confused, overwhelmed, and scatter-brained._

_He stood there for a while, waiting for his mind to recollect more of the built-in manuel of how to walk, giving a soft sigh of frustration. He hated waking up from a coma. He wondered if this was some sort of punishment he inflicted upon himself; to be in the body of his past self when he was in the coma. After some time, Sherlock felt like he could go on again with only a little bit of difficulty. Once he had made his way out of the waiting room and outside, he noticed something coming from the morgue building attached to Bart's Hospital(which had been partially demolished by the strong, relentless storm)._

Fire.

_The morgue was on fire. Fortunately, it didn't look too bad; the flames weren't very high or hungry, but still danced and licked at the air. Curiosity taking over, the detective slowly made his way to the building, becoming cautious once he had reached it and stepped inside. He abruptly halted at the door, where only some feet away the fire stood. Now he was able to hear it crackling quietly and smell the smoke that stuffed the room. The detective quickly covered his nose and mouth with his scarf. He only just realized that he was wearing it, as well as his coat; he must've refused to wear a nightgown, no doubt. Which was sort of a good thing, because the scarf came in handy at that moment, although he still coughed a bit occasionally. Sherlock carefully stepped over to the hot flames. He knew it was most likely the lightning that had caused it. He then noticed something familiar, and cautiously stepped around the fire to look at it. One of the containers that had the drug he had concocted, before all of this happened. It was tipped over, the contents trailing down into the bright, orange-red flames. And then that's when Sherlock had a thought: the drug got into the flames, which then reached into the smoke and soon into the sky. He noticed that the flames seemed to grow from touching the liquid, and the smoke became worse, filling the building and sky._

_Sherlock's grey-blue eyes widened, reminded again that this was all of his doing. That he had created this drug in his foolishness of wanting to make something to help with his stupid addiction. And because of that, he had made many people sick. Including his own best friend. How could he be so damn selfish? Sherlock gripped tightly onto his scarf, which he still held over his nose and mouth. His legs felt like jelly again, and he thought about how staying in a coma was better than knowing all of what he had done. He didn't cause the apocalypse, no. That was something which suddenly happened all on its own. But he was the cause of the disease. And because of him, John was partly lost to him. Would he really be able to find a cure? And how?_

_Sherlock paused his thoughts as he noticed a figure walking out of the flames. It was John. His eyes were narrowed, his body covered in ashes from the fire as he slowly stepped toward him. The other widened his eyes in confused surprise, quickly stepping away and nearly tripping over himself. John seemed to ignore his attempt of getting away, still slowly walking toward him. Before Sherlock could step away any further, the doctor had grabbed onto his scarf, pulling him close. The detective coughed and choked, the acrid-smelling, dark grey smoke filling his lungs._

_"Sherlock!!!" John yelled at him. Sherlock stared at him with confusion, struggling to get away. And then he heard the voice beyond the vision, beyond his Mind Palace, sounding louder and taking the shape of reality._

_That's when Sherlock finally left his Mind Palace._


	10. Attacked

"Sherlock!!!"

Sherlock focused on John's voice, and his eyes immediately fluttered open to see his best friend tugging at his scarf, getting him to wake up. His expression looked panicked and scared. The detective quickly sat up, his heart pounding. "What's wrong?" he asked the scared doctor quickly. "It's Them. There are a few, but we need to get out of here, before they attract more!"

Sherlock looked over John's shoulder to see that he was right: a few of one of the Diseased were running toward them in the distance, knives and subitutes for weapons in their hands. He quickly stood and grabbed John's hand, beginning to run. The other ran with him, starting to pant the more the two of them ran. Sherlock only gave a quick glance from behind to watch the small group of Diseased chase after them, giving loud shouts of glee, a gleam of lust for the kill in each of their horrifying eyes. He then turned back to looking ahead, searching for another safehaven, small or not, to at least keep John and him hidden for a while. Just as he spotted a crumpled down building like many of the others, he felt John's hand be yanked from his own. He quickly turned to see one of the Diseased had grabbed his friend's arm, pulling him towards the others. They readied their weapons, hunger in their gazes. But feeling an anger inside of him and that urge to protect, Sherlock rushed at them. They gave a look of shocked confusion as the detective barreled into them, shoving them away. He kicked each Diseased person down, making sure they stayed down with an extra kick. One of the Diseased had come up from behind him, wrapping his arms around the other's neck. Sherlock struggled to pry his strong hands off, but he refused to let go. He began to squeeze his neck, and Sherlock choked, desperate for air.

But then there was John, his best friend, his saviour, coming in to save him. He angrily grabbed at the Diseased man, pulling him away as easily as if he were just a sack of flour. The man struggled away from him and made to attack, knife raised, but the retired army doctor punched him back, causing him to fall over. He then grabbed onto Sherlock's hand (whom had just recovered from the previous attack of the Diseased man, gulping in air eagerly), squeezing tightly as he hastily ran. As Sherlock ran with him, he turned to look behind him to see the group of Diseased slowly recovering from their confusion and injuries. He then looked at John, who was more concentrated on searching for a place to hide. The detective wondered if part of that anger came from his Half-Diseased self. He felt fortunate to have John by his side, but also afraid. He could've used such strength on Sherlock if he were in that state.

For the second time, Sherlock thought to himself: Could he really find a cure?


	11. The Crab Nebula and Stardust

Sherlock and John were tired out from their previous fight with the Diseased. The two best friends had found a new shelter: a turned-down car. It was painful, crouching down inside of a vehicle, but it was better than nothing. Certainly better than getting found out by more of the Diseased and having to face them again. The two agreed to stay under the car only for a small amount of time; at least until the sky lightened more. Sherlock hadn't really paid attention to how long he had been away in his Mind Palace for. Enough for some of the  Diseased to suddenly attack them, it seemed.

 _The vision....._  
He had almost forgotten about it, in the excitement of what had happened not too long ago. Now, as he sat to recollect his thoughts, he settled down on the strange vision he had found himself in.  
 _I caused this....._ he reminded himself, as a flashback of the horrible vision shone in his mind like the sun's rays shining on one's eyes.  
_I caused this.....disease. If I hadn't been so careless and foolish, nobody would've....._  
 _John wouldn't....._  
Even thinking the words alone was difficult.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"  
John's voice cut through the silence that had blanketed upon the turned-down car, his voice worrisome and quiet. The detective hadn't realized he was gripping one of the car's windshield wipers so tight, that his knuckles had begun to turn red. He slowly let go of the windshield wiper, noticing the pain for the first time from gripping it. He was still quiet for a minute longer before responding to John, refusing to look at him but instead staring ahead, at nothing in particular.  
"Yes. I'm fine."

But the doctor knew better. Knew his friend better than anyone. However, he decided to not press the detective, licking his lips and turning away. They had been through a lot, after all.  
Both men stared out, as much as they could make out, noticing the sky beginning to grow lighter. But still they remained crouching uncomfortably under the car. Whether of "just-in-case" paranoia or still recovering, neither detective nor doctor were sure themselves.

Once a good three or four minutes had passed, Sherlock spoke again.  
"John."  
John turned to his friend, ignoring the heat of the car and the cramped feeling. In all honesty, he wouldn't have minded making this his shelter and dying here. He would rather that than face more of Them. Them like himself, and others more worse. But he wasn't a coward, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't want to give up either. He shook away his fears and paranoia, focusing on the detective's other-worldly eyes. Still, however, the other didn't turn to look back at him.  
"Yes?"  
"This is my fault."  
John blinked a few times in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock gave a sigh, as if he were about to deliver a complicated speech. He felt hot from the car as much as John did, but both would have to hold out for a moment. John needed to hear this; he needed to know. And now seemed to be the perfect opportunity. They were in a good hiding place, so it looked like they wouldn't be interrupted anytime soon. The light was shooing away the darkness, so afterwards, they could get the hell out of this cramped, hot car. There weren't very many Diseased out during the daytime, Sherlock had deduced. Probably because it was better to hunt for others who hadn't turned like them, when they were asleep. The detective only allowed a minute of silence to pass before pouring it all out.

He told John about his odd vision in his Mind Palace. About how he had been in a coma the whole time of the world falling apart. He explained that some part of him must've thought he was back at 221B, possibly from the drug he had concocted, which was still in his system at that time, slowly losing its effect. Since he was in a coma, he deduced the drug didn't have as strong as an effect as it had on him before; it was weakened to only give him the hallucinating thought that he had still been on the case.

He left out the details about how he was able to be in his body and wake up from the coma and see what had happened. That was beyond his knowledge and of any logic, and he didn't want John to think he was mad. Not that he wasn't mad enough for making that drug. Sherlock tried to shrug off that part of the ridiculous vision as just something a part of his Mind Palace. He was able to become so shrouded into the Palace, that it was almost like he was there.

But a part of him couldn't help but wonder at the thought that maybe the drug hadn't completely lost its effect yet. He was still confused as to why he hadn't ended up like everyone else, except for a short moment, during that time when--  
No. He didn't want to remember that. But why? Why wasn't he still like that? He didn't even feel as if he were Half-Diseased, like John. It was a large puzzle that he was incapable of solving. It drove him insane. But he brushed these thoughts away, if only for a moment. _Plenty for that later._

"If I hadn't made that stupid drug. . ." Sherlock had said, after he finished explaining to John. "Then you wouldn't be the way you are. And I wouldn't have harmed you before. I wouldn't have caused an entire population of people in London to go mad. This is all my fault. I'm so sorry, John, I'm so sorry. . ."

John looked surprised to hear Sherlock sound so. . . . Sincere. Upset. He even noticed a hint of a choke in the other man's voice, as if he were holding back tears. The doctor was silent for a long moment. Was he angry at Sherlock, for all he had done? Did he want to strangle him, and beat him to a pulp? Yes. And yet. . . He couldn't. Because right now, they needed each other. They needed to stick together. And maybe when this was all over, maybe then John would hate the detective. But for now, they needed each other to face this new, upside down world.

So John reached over to his best friend, putting a hand on his shoulder. This time, the other turned to look at him, and for a moment, he was struck by those beautiful, grey-blue eyes, looking as if the Crab Nebula decided to leave its place from the galaxy and settle down into the detective's eyes. He oddly found his heart pounding from a feeling he didn't know he had as he stared and stared into those eyes.

Sherlock didn't revert his gaze. He didn't quickly look away. Because he found himself staring back. And as he did so, he noticed John's eyes weren't just brown. It only looked like that from a distance, and anyway he hadn't really paid attention back then. But as he looked closely, he realized John's eyes offered more beauty than he thought possible: shimmering gold flecks like stardust, scattered around the middle, the rest a dark blue, mixed in with some green that reminded him of a part of the universe.

Silence blanketed the car once more as the two men stared at each other, as if noticing one another for the first time. They forgot about feeling cramped. They forgot about feeling hot. Instead, they only had one thought: each other. Sherlock's heart pounded in his own chest, seeming to match in rhythm with John's.

Without knowing what he was doing, the doctor ever so slowly leaned forward, his eyes quickly glancing down at the detective's bow-shaped, pale lips. Taking the slight hint, Sherlock leaned forward as well, closing the gap between them slowly. It was only a few seconds later when John felt his flatmate's lips touch his, and it felt as if sparks had shot throughout his body.

The silence grew and grew, and neither doctor nor detective paid mind to the lightened sky as they focused on that one special moment, in the middle of a diseased-infested apocalypse.


	12. A Moment of Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter that finally contains some *wink, wink*.  
> I can't write smut to save my life. Please help me.

Dawn dominated the sky, and for once, the deserted world of London looked beautiful, despite the dark grey ashclouds that still lingered high above. But Sherlock and John were not paying attention to this. Still focused on each other's kiss, the two became more eager for more and more. John's hands had instinctively tangled into the detective's dark curls, moving his body closer against his. A muffled moan escaped Sherlock's mouth, unable to comprehend the feeling he had in this rare moment of passion.

The soft noise encouraged the retired army doctor, and he found his blood boiling in eagerness, in want, and in that eagerness and in impatience, he grind against the other, hands leaving his curls to move down to his coat, hurriedly taking it off. The detective helped him, shrugging off the coat, as well as quickly taking off his scarf. He still ignored the heat, but had almost felt suffocated by the warmth of his coat and scarf, so he was glad to be rid of them. John felt a part of his Diseased self take control, and he found himself grinding against his dear friend harder, his want for more than just this rising. Both men moaned at the pleasure they felt, their only focus narrowed down to each other, to this moment.

Before he knew it, John was already slipping off his trousers as he kissed Sherlock roughly, whom moaned and purred in pleasure. Once his trousers were a good length down his waist, John proceeded to slip down Sherlock's, his want becoming more urgent. The detective could feel it through the fabric of his red pants, as his bulge pressed hard against his own plain pants. He felt his own erection rise at the feel of John's, and all that was happening. He wasn't exactly sure what was happening between him and his flatmate, but for some reason or other, something inside of him told the detective he needed it. He _craved_ it. Just as much as the doctor had.

John wasted no time, as his erection only grew more at each other's rising pleasures and the heat that they felt, pressed against each other's bodies. Not just from the heat of the car, but from their desires as well. The doctor slid down the detective's pants, and Sherlock did the same to his. Afterwards, the two relapsed back into heated kisses on tingled lips and sweating necks, their breaths rising in the excitement of it all. "John. . ." Sherlock let out in a pleading whisper, moving his hips helplessly and urgently against John's. John didn't have to feel Sherlock's own rising bulge pushing against his to know he craved for it too. He didn't intend to make him---or himself---wait any longer. Driven by that one thing he craved, he didn't care for going out slow, or teasing Sherlock a while first. _I need it more_ , a voice in his head told himself. But it wasn't his own voice.

Sherlock bit his lip, anticipating the feel of John inside of him; in fact, he was already imagining it, his eyes closing as the other trailed kisses down his neck, which felt like fire and lightning mixed together, causing a feeling of a dizzy pleasure to rush up into his head. Finally, John got into a good position and slowly pushed his erected manhood into the other's awaiting entrance. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he gasped, hands wrapping around his neck, clinging on for dear life as the retired army doctor thrust in, and out, in and out at a slow tempo.

Heat built up in the car and into the friends' bodies, as in that moment they became one. Sherlock moved his hips against John in rhythm of his thrusts, which increased every passing minute. For a moment, the detective could've sworn he was no longer in an apocalypse, but in an unknown, silent heaven, save for the sounds that were coming from his and John's mouth. "Fuck. . . Fuck!" he could only say, which seemed to encourage the other to thrust harder.

Ten minutes passed. The heat between Sherlock and John was building up a lot more now. Moans and cries filled the car, and the car groaned in protest at John's increased movement. John could feel himself close, so damn close, that it nearly drew him over the edge. His hands gripped the detective's shoulders with a tightness that made Sherlock wince, but only slightly, more focused on the pleasure that shot throughout his body like wildfire. Sweat ran down his forehead, his hands tightening around John's neck, getting ready for his beloved flatmate to release. He let out a loud gasp, crying out, as he released his climax a moment later, the warm seed exploding all over the other's lower body. Sherlock's head laid back, eyes closed in relief as he released. John groaned in pleasure, accepting the feel of his friend's seed upon his skin, reveling in it for a moment, closing his own eyes and arching his muscled back.

Afterwards, he focused back onto the task at hand, his thrusts growing faster and harder, and then more hurriedly and rougher, all at once. Sherlock's brief relaxation ended as he felt the increase, crying out in pleasure, knowing John was coming to a close soon now. The other growled, teeth clenched, nails digging into Sherlock's shoulders as he nearly begged for that sweet release to happen already, to fill the detective's entrance. A slight, dry slapping noise could be heard as he increased the friction, Sherlock moving his hips against him in an offer of help.

And then, finally. Finally, John's moment came. He cried out loudly, uncaring if anyone or anything heard him, arching his back, despite how cramped it felt in the car; he didn't care. Sherlock moaned softly and gratefully at the feel of John's own seed flooding him as easily as a stream rushing down a waterfall. After all that effort, after all that pounding and thrusting, all that heat and sweat, it was worth it. It was _all_ worth it. And both men knew this too. After filling Sherlock nearly to the brim, giving one more half-hearted thrust, John stopped and immediately laid his head on his flatmate's chest, not even bothering to move his cock out of him, too exhausted to even move. Sherlock didn't mind if he remained that way; it didn't bother his entrance or himself not one bit. The two laid there, eyes closed and panting heavily, which soon lowered down to a soft, quiet one.

Silence still punctured the dawn sky and deserted streets outside of the turned-down car, save for the sound of a slight wind. Sherlock and John still laid there for a while longer, recovering from a moment of wild, unexpected passion.


	13. Molly Hooper

The sky became lighter, and the silence lingered. Sherlock and John had soon untangled themselves from each other, moving out of the car slowly and painfully and into the bright sunlight. Only then did John notice how much his body ached. He winced in pain as he stretched out his aching limbs. When he looked over at Sherlock, his hair more messy than his own, he thought to himself with a grin, _it was worth it. It was_ all _worth it._  
Sherlock, turning to see John's expression and knowing what it meant, returned the grin. _Definitely worth it._

Sherlock still couldn't shake the thought from his head of how odd it was that he had sex---with his flatmate, nonetheless. But, it was the apocalypse, after all. Weird things happened in an apocalypse. Besides, he thought he could hardly call John his "flatmate" anymore now. At this point, John was even more than a. . . . friend. The two men decided to sit for a while, getting in a quick rest before standing back up and heading down the lonely street. They were still in pain, but it felt good to walk again.

Where they were going, neither Sherlock or John was sure. All they knew was they needed to find a place of food. The two had forgotten about their hunger in the events that happened. They had eaten before, but quickly ran out of supply of the food. It wasn't a very big supply anyway; mostly just canned foods.  
"I usually don't say this, but. . . I'm absolutely starving, John," Sherlock spoke in the quiet, as he and John made their way down the road, passing by mostly-destroyed flats and little shops. "I know," John sighed, "me too. Me too."  
Sherlock looked at the row of flats as they walked, stopping when he noticed a little sandwich shop just a little ways down. He couldn't see very good from where he and John stood, but it looked to be still intact. "Let's check that out, see if it'll have packaged or canned foods that are good to eat." he said. The other nodded in agreement, ignoring the quiet growl of his own stomach as he followed Sherlock to the sidewalk, walking down to their destination.

The two flatmates soon reached the small building. It was mostly intact, just as the detective had assumed from his viewpoint earlier. When Sherlock went to go open the door, he noticed it was already opened, just a crack. He looked at John.  
"It has been opened recently. We need to be cautious," he said. John nodded quietly, licking his lips in nervousness as he followed Sherlock slowly into the shop.

The place seemed to be mostly deserted, which made John feel a little more relaxed and relieved. Realizing this, but still being cautious, Sherlock walked around the counter, looking for anything him and John could eat. John walked over to join him, but stopped abruptly at a slight sound he heard. Sherlock seemed to have heard it too, for he stopped what he was doing to look around. The silence returned, making it seem as if no noise was ever made. John licked his lips again, his heart beating quickly in his chest. "I feel like something isn't right, Sherlock. . ." he said quietly.  
"There is always something that doesn't feel right in this bloody apocalypse." Sherlock muttered, still looking around for the source of the sound.

The place still gave no indication that there was a sound at all. Then, the two men heard it again. Listening attentively, both confirmed it to be footsteps. "Someone's in here. . ." Sherlock said, his voice low now.  
"It could be one of Them." John whispered back, beginning to feel panicked now. "Hunting us." he added, although it was no help at all and only strengthened his panic.  
"Thank you for that." Sherlock answered in annoyance.  
"Sorry."

Sherlock slowly walked around the shop as he searched for where the noise was coming from. John, feeling helpless, joined his flatmate. The two paused as they looked silently at the closed door behind the counter; it must've been a storage place. John then looked at Sherlock, gesturing toward the door.  
"After you."  
Rolling his eyes at what Sherlock saw as childishness from John, he slowly walked forward to the door. When he came closer to it, he noticed it was slightly ajar. Holding in a breath and letting it go, Sherlock slowly pushed open the door. He gave a little jump, but relaxed, and his eyes widened in recognition and surprise, John's own eyes doing likewise.  
"Molly Hooper?" Sherlock said in a shocked voice, breaking the silence.

And there Molly Hooper stood before him, a mask over her mouth and a baseball bat over her shoulder. Her hair was in worse shape than Sherlock and John's combined, and seemed to have grown a little more in the past 30 days, covering half of her face. She almost looked unrecognizable. So when Sherlock noticed her, she looked just as surprised, mixed with her shock of seeing him and John. The former pathologist pulled down her mask to reveal cut lips that still stung a little when she talked, but she couldn't help but say the names that passed through them:  
"Sherlock? John?"


	14. "For John"

"Thank God you're alive, Molly! Me and Sherlock assumed we were the only sane ones around here." John had said. Him, Sherlock, and Molly sat against the wall of the now shabby, little shop. Several cans of foods, mostly beans, laid out before them, empty; the ex-pathologist had gathered some of the cans from her own supply for all three of them to eat. It wasn't much, but it was enough to hold Sherlock and John over. They even each had a water bottle, in which, Molly assured them, was safe to drink.

Molly had just finished her second can of cold beans before turning her attention to the ex-doctor. She still wore her lab coat, which was completely dirty now.  
"Well, I have mostly stayed in here. At first, I was running about, making temporary shelter in various buildings. But I'm not too worried about the Diseased coming around here anymore; I can protect myself pretty well, thanks to this." She held up her baseball bat, looking a bit worn and dirty from use, along with a few bloodstains.

The two men blinked in surprise as they stared at the bat. Molly raised a brow as she set her weapon back on the floor beside her. "What's the matter?" she wondered.  
"Nothing, it's just that. . . You're doing quite well for yourself," Sherlock spoke. "Me and John haven't had any luck of finding a weapon to defend ourselves."  
John nodded in confirmation. "And what's worse," he said, "I am--"  
John paused in mid-sentence as Sherlock quickly glanced his way with a look that read, "Don't tell her."  
"I have to," John's look read back to him. Confused, the small woman looked between the two friends.  
"You're what, John?"  
Sherlock gave a long, soft sigh as he slowly turned to look at her.  
"He's a Half-Diseased."

Silence took over for a moment as Molly slowly tried to accept this new, shocking detail. A Half-Diseased sat near them, and Sherlock seemed fine with it? Even though she was thinking these words in her head, she wasn't afraid to voice her opinions aloud, sounding panicked.  
"Sherlock, are you insane?! Bringing a Half-Diseased in here?"  
Before John could speak, his friend jumped to his defense, suddenly becoming a whole new person. This Sherlock Holmes had an urge to protect the man he loved most in the world. Unlike the time he saved John from the Diseased, this time was different. He defended the other against a woman whom was his assistant, someone John didn't expect Sherlock to be angry at.

"He isn't just some Half-Diseased. He's John Hamish Watson, my best friend and the man I love most in the world! And if you think for one second he's one of Them, then I will be more than glad to prove you wrong."  
Another long wave of silence. Molly was taken aback by Sherlock's firm voice and strong words. She never thought the mysterious man in the coat had so much feelings for John, or for anyone else. Had the apocalypse changed him?  
She bit her lip, looking down for a moment before looking back up again.  
"Okay. I'm sorry. . . You're right. John is still one of us, Disease or no Disease. But. . . You must know of some cure? Because if we can't cure him soon, then he could--"  
"Yes, I know. . . He could truly become one of Them." Sherlock stared down at the dirty floor, gripping his water bottle tightly. He had no idea where the cure was or what it even could be.

John remained silent, pursing his lips as if he were going to say something, but ended up staying quiet. He then leaned back against the wall with a soft sigh.  
"Maybe if I were to somehow reverse it. . ." Sherlock muttered aloud to himself. Molly and John looked at him curiously.  
"What?" they both wondered in unison. Sherlock only shook his head with a sigh. "No, that won't work. . ."  
The detective's face lit up as he seemed to have come up with an idea. He looked at John. "John," he said, "do you remember if the doctors gave me anything at the hospital, after you had knocked me out for attacking you? Assuming I wasn't still myself. I can't remember much."  
Molly looked between the two, as puzzled as ever.  
"Attacked? What--"  
"Not now, Molly, this is very important."  
Raising a questioning eyebrow, the ex-pathologist looked to John for help. But he only shrugged apologetically in response before looking back at Sherlock.

"Well. . . They gave you something to at least calm your nerves before giving you a sedative to temporarily knock you out. They wouldn't tell me what the first medicine was, and so I tried finding out myself, but no luck." John had wanted to kick himself; he was a doctor, and so was supposed to be able to know these things!  
"Did you try telling them that you are a doctor and have the right to know?" Sherlock said.  
"Yeah," John answered with a sigh. "Still no luck. It's like they were hiding something."  
Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Yes, whatever they were hiding, it must've cured me somehow. Which may be the reason why I'm immune to the Disease."  
Molly's eyes widened. "You're immune?"  
"Yes. And the only one, it would seem."  
Molly nodded, sitting up a little as she took a quick swig from her water bottle. She then spoke, "Well, we'll have to figure out what this cure is, then find it to cure John and make him immune, too."  
"Exactly. Now, John, could you tell me--John?"  
When Sherlock and Molly turned to face the ex-doctor, they noticed something different about him.

His eyes were narrowed as he glared at both of them with a hungry look. . . A hungry look to kill. Sherlock's eyes widened. "Shit. Molly, we have to get out of here!" he said, as he stood to his feet. Molly quickly scrambled up to her own feet, holding up her bat protectively.  
"No time for fighting back, we need to--"  
"But you said yourself that he's the man you love most in the world!" Molly interrupted. "We can't just leave him. So we have no choice but to fight back, because if we do run away, then he will only end up alerting the others anyway."  
The taller man paused, realizing that the woman had a point. He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. "Alright."  
"Now, our aim is to knock him out cold," Molly explained. "That should put him back to normal again."  
Sherlock only nodded again wordlessly. He never realized how clever Molly Hooper could be. But, then again, he didn't know much about her to begin with.

"Sherlock, pay attention!" Molly said in a raised voice, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts. He then realized another thing: this wasn't the Molly Hooper he used to know, because this Molly Hooper had to learn to live in this kind of world in order to survive. He couldn't help but feel impressed at the woman who once seemed so girly and delicate, despite working with dead bodies most of her life.  
"Sorry," he said quickly. "What's the plan?"  
For once, the detective was stunned that he wasn't the clever one this time. _What an unusual turn of events. The apocalypse is really not my area. . ._  
He thought to himself in annoyance. He hated it when he couldn't be clever.

"You'll distract John and I'll get behind him to knock him out. Even if it takes allowing him to chase you around the shop, then do it. Just don't let him outside. And you don't have to worry about catching the Disease, so this works out perfectly."  
Sherlock nodded. He then only figured out the reason for Molly's mask, which still hung around her neck: to keep her from catching the Disease from the air when she went outside. She knew that breathing in the contaminated air would turn her into one of Them.  
_Clever._

But Sherlock knew there was no time to sit around and admire how clever Molly had become. He had a job to do. Although he didn't want John to get hurt, he knew knocking him out was the only way his friend/lover would become himself again. He took a deep breath before taking a step toward John. Once the now-Diseased John had his full attention on the detective, Sherlock noticed in the corner of his eye that Molly had swiftly and quietly made her way to the other side of John in a wide circle, to keep herself unnoticed by not being too close to the other man.  
_How stupid is he in this state if he didn't notice Molly?_ he thought to himself.  
John slowly took a step toward Sherlock.  
"You can't get away from me now. . ."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to act nonchalant. He knew the Diseased liked it when people were scared. So he had to hide his fear. This was extra difficult, because it was John Watson standing before him.  
_For John_ , he told himself, if only to up his confidence a little.

"I obviously can't get away; we're in a small shop."  
John's eyes narrowed furiously at Sherlock's smart-mouthed remark.  
"What? Do you think me to be stupid? Of course I know that."  
John stepped closer, growling in frustration.  
"Don't use that tone with me, John Hamish Watson. Mary certainly wouldn't be happy about it."  
The smaller man then jumped at Sherlock.


	15. The Cure

Sherlock felt his back hit against the counter behind him as John lunged, wincing in pain. "You won't be talking once I've ripped out that throat of yours!" the smaller man snarled. Sherlock shoved him back and turned to run, only to be jumped by John, whom wrapped strong arms firmly around his neck, attempting to choke the life out of him. Sherlock struggled, fighting desperately for air. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the Half-Diseased John off of him. He tried not to panic, continuing to struggle. Then, once he began to think his life was over, he felt John's hands around his neck loosen and heard a thud. When he turned, he noticed Molly standing before the other man, who laid on the floor, knocked out. Molly held her baseball bat over her shoulder, panting. "You ok?" she asked Sherlock. The detective took a moment to recover and gulp in air before answering her. "Well, other than the fact that I nearly got choked to death, I'm doing great."

"I could use a 'thank you', you know."

"I could use a smoke, but it looks like that's not happening anytime soon."

"Still a cock, even in the middle of an apocalypse, Sherlock?"

"Now you're starting to sound like John. Will he be alright, by the way?" Sherlock instantly forgot about exchanging witty remarks with the female pathologist, staring down at the unconscious John. His heart filled with emotion as he remembered how the fake John Watson attacked him, a promise to end his life in his changed eyes. Sherlock shivered slightly at the memory. How much more could he take of this? Molly looked at him, then down at John. "Yeah, he'll be alright. He may be out for a while, though, but keep an eye on him when he wakes up. Half-Diseased can be so unpredictable, and the disease in John's system could be getting worse. Which means he may still be in the state even when he's awake." Sherlock nodded, once again taken aback by this woman's intelligence of this whole thing. Even John didn't know so much. "Do you have any idea of when he may slip into the state?" he asked, unable to stop his curiosity of wondering if Molly had any idea, despite his annoyance at being less intelligent for once. Molly nodded to his question as she spoke, "Yes, actually. I have been watching John carefully ever since you told me he's Half-Diseased, even when we were all talking. Studied the way he looked. He looked nervous and worried, which may have riled the bad side of him."

"So what you're basically saying is, we have to keep him from getting too worked up?"

Molly shrugged. "Pretty much, yeah." She then looked down at John again. "Well, come on. Let's get him in the storage room; it's safe and cool in there, and I keep my supply of food and water in there. It looks like we're all a team now. Assuming you know what a team is, Sherlock?" Molly had begun picking up one end of John carefully, a hint of a smile on her lips as she said the last part. Sherlock leaned down to pick up John by his shoulders, grunting with the effort. "Of course I know what a 'team' is, thank you very much," Sherlock muttered defensively, sounding all to the apocalyptic world like a child. The two carried John into the storage room, setting him down near the wall.

Sherlock then sat down with a sigh, Molly doing the same. They were quiet for some time, the detective staring at his friend who looked dead to the world, and the pathologist staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, her knees drawn up to her stomach as she hugged them tightly.  
"You know, even as someone who believes in things like miracles, I never thought something like this could happen. I always thought it was impossible." Molly had spoke, hating the silence and deciding to break it to avoid further awkwardness; even though she felt awkward for speaking anyway. That's what Sherlock Holmes did to you: made you feel awkward. She didn't think it was his intention, but. . . He had that kind of effect.  
"Yeah, well, I've never believed in miracles, so it makes this whole thing for me worse." Sherlock replied. Molly looked at him with a grin. "That's good to know. You're starting to learn."  
"You seem. . . Different."  
"That's what an apocalypse does to you, I guess." Molly shrugged half-heartedly. Sherlock looked over at John after these words, frowning. "Yeah. I guess."

The two decided to allow the quiet to take over again, settling down to rest for a while. Feeling safe and for once comfortable (even for just a little), the detective decided to go into his Mind Palace to think about what the cure may be and where he had to look. He closed his eyes, entering into that Palace of his, and thought long and hard, begging himself to remember the night he was brought to the hospital.

_When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was in the middle of his room back at 221B. It was after his past self attacked John suddenly. The flashback alone made his back stiffen slightly. But he made himself relax and instead focused on the task at hand. Sherlock's past self was struggling in the grips of what looked like two paramedics. Looking closely, Sherlock noticed he had a mark near his forehead, and then realized this was also after John had knocked him out. Whatever this bloody drug that his stupid self concocted, it seemed to be strong enough to get him back up again more quickly than usual, with fight still left in his blood. He watched as one of the paramedics, a woman, took out a syringe and pushed it slowly into past-Sherlock's arm. A moment later, the man slowly began to stop his fighting, his movements slowing as his eyes became tired with sudden fatigue. Once he was calmed down, the paramedics carefully carried the past-Sherlock between them out the slightly open front door and down to a waiting ambulance._

_The real Sherlock turned to notice John speaking to Lestrade on the side, looking distressed, disheveled, and worried. He watched as the silver-haired man reached out a reassuring hand on the other's shoulder, a look of remorse for him in his eyes. Sherlock looked away, reminded once more that this was all his fault. Not wanting to stand here knowing how John looked during this time, he quickly turned and got into the back of the ambulance, standing near his past self, who laid down in a stretcher, groaning softly in his unconsciousness as the paramedics worked on him. Sherlock glared at himself, thinking he deserved it for all that he had done. He wasn't the one suffering---John Watson was._

_Sherlock stared out the window at nothing in particular as the two paramedics shut the doors of the back of the vehicle and it drove down the road. Despite the loudness of it, the man felt the silence around him and in his ears, as if taunting him. When the ambulance reached St. Bart's Hospital, the man and woman (the two paramedics) wasted no time to push open the doors and slowly brought out the past-Sherlock on the stretcher out of the vehicle before hurrying into the building, the real Sherlock right behind them. They rushed past the patients, the sick, the crying, the groaning. It was almost more worse than the apocalypse itself, Sherlock couldn't help thinking._  
_"We have an unusual patient!" the male paramedic announced as he brought Sherlock into a room, where a doctor waited. The doctor, a tall man (though not as tall as Sherlock Holmes himself) walked over to Sherlock, who had already begun to wake.  
"Right, of course, always the unusual ones. Get Dr. Wilson in here, and see if the man's flatmate was able to make it." The other man nodded, before hurrying off. The woman stayed to explain to the doctor what had happened back at 221B and Sherlock's strange behavior and current conditions. The doctor nodded in response, his expression firm. Sherlock watched them for a bit before turning to the door as another man, this one shorter with salt and pepper hair and beard, entered the room. He deduced that this must've been Dr. Wilson. John followed in behind him._

 _"Sara Lynn, you can leave it to us now," the first doctor spoke to the female paramedic. Sara Lynn left the scene, glad to not have to be a part of it as she closed the door behind her. John stepped forward to look closely at his best friend, sighing in quiet relief to know he was fine. He still felt a little bad about having to knock him out back at the flat. But just a little. He didn't deserve any sympathy, and John certainly didn't regret what he did. That didn't mean he didn't still care for Sherlock's health and safety._  
_"Sara Lynn explained to me what happened," the taller doctor spoke as he watched John observe the detective, whose eyes were now opened and stared wordlessly back at him. John nodded in answer to the other doctor, biting his lip briefly. "I wasn't expecting it. It was so. . . Sudden."_  
 _"Well, not to worry, Dr. Watson. Me and Dr. Reynolds has a special medicine that may cure him instantly," Dr. Wilson finally spoke._  
"Really?" John quickly looked toward Dr. Wilson with hope in his tired eyes.  
"Yes, and at no charge. We have been wanting to test this medicine, to see if it worked." Dr. Wilson said. When he noticed John's suspicious expression, he quickly added, "but it's not harmful; if it doesn't work on him, then it won't do a thing. Won't have any other effect but to do what we're hoping, if it works, of course."  
"And you're sure this will cure him?"  
Both men nodded.  
"Alright. . . So what is this 'medicine' you made, then?"  
Both of them became quiet as they looked at each other before looking at John, their expressions equally sheepish and apologizing.  
"Well. . . We can't say," Dr. Reynolds explained tentatively. John's brow raised questioningly as he asked, "And why not?"

 _"Because it's only between us doctors to know."_  
_"But I_ am _a doctor." John said firmly, feeling like a child getting left out of a game of Tag. It was completely ridiculous. He shook his head at this all. "I have a right to know what kind of bloody medicine you are testing out on my friend."_  
 _The two doctors sighed, Dr. Wilson shaking his head. "I'm sorry. But we can't tell you." he said sadly. John was quiet for some time before sighing himself in exasperation, trying to reign in his anger. "Okay. Fine. That's. . . Fine. Just make sure it works. That's all I ask. Is there anyway I could help?"_  
Dr. Reynolds shook his head. "No, it's alright. We got it from here," he said. "Just get home and calm yourself. You're in bad shape. We'll let you know if the medicine works."  
John nodded silently in response before slowly turning to leave. Both men watched as he shut the door behind him and turned to Sherlock, who sat up on the stretcher, looking at them with a look of madness in his grey-blue eyes.

_"Quick, do you have the medicine?" Dr. Reynolds spoke quickly, turning to Dr. Wilson. The other man nodded in response, hurrying to take out a vial from his pocket. The real Sherlock stepped closer to see what it was. As he observed it closely, he realized that it was a tincture. A tincture of. . .  
"Marijuana," Sherlock whispered to himself in surprise. It seemed to have been mixed with some other herbs or medicines, but he wasn't sure what. He watched as Dr. Wilson walked over to the counter, slowly and carefully pouring the tincture into a syringe and then handing it to Dr. Reynolds. The tall doctor walked over to past-Sherlock, who had begun to growl low in his throat like a wild animal, pinpointing the older man with a glare. Doing his best to ignore the sudden hostility, Dr. Reynolds slowly pushed the syringe into past-Sherlock's arm, pumping the liquid into his veins. For some time, he struggled after Dr. Reynolds had finished and pulled the syringe out slowly._

_Sherlock began to stand up, and both doctors made sure to give him a wide berth as they backed away against the counter, muttering quick prayers under their breath as they hoped and tried to will the medicine to work. Barely could the killing-hungry detective step off the stretcher did he already begin to feel a change begin to come over him. As the real Sherlock watched, he slowly sat back down on the stretcher, a look of confusion beginning to overcome his features. He looked around wordlessly, then at the two doctors, who had started to relax and slowly step over to the puzzled man, as if fearing he might end up attacking them after all._

_"What happened? What's going on?" the past-Sherlock demanded of them, though he sounded quite drowsy and out of it. Deciding that he had the answer he wanted, the real Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing hard to leave his Mind Palace behind and wake up back into reality. He only hoped there wouldn't be trouble when he got back._

Fortunately for the detective, there was no drama waiting for him when he opened his eyes to the real world, sitting up in his spot in the dark and quiet storage room. He noticed Molly Hooper was asleep, curled up in a ball. John still slept, looking peaceful in his spot. "So that's the cure. . ." Sherlock said to himself, making sure to keep his voice low, as not to wake the pathologist or retired army doctor.  
"That medicine the two doctors created; that's it! It contained marijuana! So we'll have to find the herb, and I'll have to find out what other ingredients were used. There's a reason why it was kept a secret!" Sherlock sighed of great relief and slight happiness, looking over at the sleeping John.  
"Oh, John, wait until you wake up. I found out what the cure is! And I think I know where to look first."


	16. Mary Morstan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of 30 Days! But don't worry; this will be made into a "six-book" series, this one being the first. Expect a nasty cliffhanger at the end of this and try not to kill me. And no, I don't hate Mary, I love her actually, unlike many other people. Haha. Enjoy, I guess?

Sherlock had fallen asleep after an hour of sitting and staring at nothing, too eager to fall asleep. But he had eventually decided to get some much-needed rest, finally acknowledging his exhaustion and not wanting to wake John or Molly. The small woman was the first to wake up, stretching and yawning. After rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she stood and turned to walk over to a shelf, in which she kept the supply of food. She grabbed three nutritious granola bars and walked back over to the two men; both had woken up, and quickly reached out to catch a granola bar that Molly tossed to each of them.

Molly settled down on the floor before opening her own breakfast bar and taking a bite. Sherlock and John did likewise, surprised at their own ravenous hunger. Silence settled down upon the storage room like a mist as pathologist, detective, and doctor ate their meager breakfast. Once finished with his own bar, Sherlock decided that it was now a perfect opportunity to tell Molly and John about the cure; he could feel the tension and gloominess in the air. _A bit of good news should perk them up_ , he thought to himself.

"I have some good news to tell," he began. "I figured out what the cure is."  
Molly and John's eyes widened simultaneously. "Really? What is it?" Molly asked eagerly, sounding like a very curious child.  
"A type of medicine the doctors gave me, which cured me when I was in the state." Sherlock explained. "I had to dig deep down into my memory by going into my Mind Palace to find this out. I just know one of the key ingredients of this medicine includes marijuana." John stared at Sherlock.  
"Really? Well, no wonder why they wouldn't tell me! But I should've known. . ." John added the last part in a mutter mostly to himself, shaking his head.

"Perhaps you should've. Would have been more of a help if you did." Sherlock said bluntly, looking at his flatmate.  
_Yeah, but you're the one who got us into this bloody mess in the first place. . ._ John wanted to say aloud, but kept it to himself. Instead, he only gave Sherlock a look. "Sherlock. . ." he said, sounding like a stern mother. Sherlock frowned, looking like a child who got himself into trouble. "Sorry." he mumbled. Molly looked between the pair, thinking to herself that they looked all to the world like a gay couple. She smiled to herself. Sherlock and John both turned to her. "What?" they asked in puzzled unison. The pathologist shook her head. "Nothing," she answered quickly.

But she somehow knew the detective and doctor were in love with each other. Smitten, even. Yes, it was true Molly was once smitten for Sherlock at one point, but seeing how John made him smile the brightest, how John made him so happy and lively, it made her choose to move on. She was happy as long as the high-functioning sociopath was happy.  
"So, where do we find this medicine?" Molly quickly added after a brief pause, wanting to change the subject that suddenly became quite awkward. Now wasn't the time to talk about who had a crush on who like some high school kids. An apocalypse meant survival, action, and business. Focusing on the task ahead was vital. Sherlock became silent for a moment before responding.  
"I would say St. Bart's Hospital. . . But the building caught on fire. I highly doubt we will find any if more were made and stashed away. But I can _make_ it."

"Oh yes, just like the time when you got so desperate that you made yourself a drug to cure your boredom. . ."  
This time, John said these words aloud without a second thought. Sherlock looked at the other man, silence washing over him for a moment. _Of course he's still angry at you, idiot_ , a voice hissed in his head. _You screwed up._  
_But I'll fix it._  
Noticing Molly's puzzled expression, he quickly continued, "The first thing we'll need is the cannabis; find where it's being planted. I doubt after so many days of being neglected that they will be alive. But it's worth something, at least. More than likely, these doctors had a special place where they kept the herbs. Definitely not in the hospital or near it, as others would have been able to smell it."

"D'you think they got it from a dealer, then?" John suggested, forgetting about his anger for a moment. "And maybe this dealer was paid extra to look after it and not sell too much?"  
Sherlock nodded, very impressed by John's deduction.  
"That's a brilliant deduction, John."  
"Really?"  
"Yes. Although, I did know that already. . ."  
"Right, and Sherlock is a girl's name."  
"Okay, I was lying, I didn't know. But Sherlock _is_ a girl's name."  
John couldn't help but smile, shaking his head. He was still absolutely furious with Sherlock. And after all of this, he'd be sure to punch the detective and then give him the silent treatment. But for now, the retired army doctor will smile for Sherlock Holmes, as long as they needed each other during these bad times. _His_ Sherlock Holmes.

A smile slowly shaped Molly's lips as she watched the two. She hadn't noticed how truly great they were together, even when one was mad with the other. She sighed inwardly. Perhaps one day---assuming there would be a "one day"---Molly Hooper would find a love like the two flatmates had between each other. But for now, she had to do what it would take to survive through this dreaded, London apocalypse.

"Right, well, do you have any idea where we should go?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head, sighing.  
"No, not really. We'll have to look for it."  
Molly gave him a look. "You mean we have to walk around until we chance upon it?" she said. The detective nodded with a slight shrug.  
"Pretty much."  
"Well, that sounds a little. . . Tedious," John commented, rubbing the back of his neck. Sherlock sighed again, frowning.  
"I know. But the doctors never gave any hints or clues of where they kept the marijuana. They seemed to be quite secretive about it."  
"Well, we should get going. I don't know about you two, but I'm tired of sitting about here and doing nothing." the pathologist said, as she stood to her feet. Sherlock and John followed suit, agreeing with her; both of their muscles were a little sore and itching to get moving.

The three friends walked out of the storage room and the shop, and into the grey and dreary morning. As usual, the eerie quiet continued to linger. Once irritated by it, Sherlock learned to accept the cold silence. John, Molly, and him made their way down the deserted street, glad to get their muscles working again. Molly carried her worn baseball bat over her shoulder. It looked a bit heavy and cumbersome to the detective, but he didn't say so aloud; after all, it did look like the woman could handle it, no matter how small she was. Detective, doctor, and pathologist felt a slight, yet cool breeze pass through them, which made their journey a little less exhaustive; they were already beginning to feel the ache in their bones, and not a good kind of ache. The slight breeze became bigger now, changing into a wind that made Sherlock's dark curls go wild and his coat flap crazily. Poor Molly Hooper was no better off. She had to continuously move her hair out of her face, but made not one complaint about it.

Sherlock could hear the whisper of the wind speaking loudly in his ears, and he felt as if the silence was completely shattered by the wordless sound of a mere wind. No matter how strong it seemed to be, however, the three walked onwards. Soon down the road, John had paused, whom was a little more ahead of the two. Sherlock noticed the smaller man had leaned down to pick something up from the ground before straightening back up. Sherlock and Molly walked over to investigate. John turned to show them his find: it was a revolver. Sherlock noticed it still had a few bullets left.  
"It's best that you save it for a last resort, unless we end up finding more guns lying about." John nodded in agreement with Sherlock, pocketing the weapon before moving on silenltly. Sherlock and Molly followed. The silence from John only told Sherlock that he felt very much at unease. This made the taller man a little nervous after what Molly told him of what she learned about the Half-Diseased. Sherlock shook his head. No, he had to be strong for Dr. Watson. _His_ Dr. Watson.

Sherlock walked up ahead to his flatmate. He noticed Molly respectfully drop back to allow him to be alone with John for a while. The detective looked at her, giving a quick nod of thanks. The pathologist smiled and nodded in response. He then turned to John.  
"John, are you alright?" he asked gently, reaching for his now lover's hand. John gratefully accepted Sherlock's hand and the warmth that came with it. Once always cold, it was now warm; something the retired army doctor needed at the moment. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, letting out a deep sigh.  
"Yeah, just a bit at unease."  
"I noticed."  
"Is it that. . . _Noticeable_?"  
Sherlock chuckled softly, offering a little smile. "A bit, yeah." he said. John replied with a little smile of his own. It was only a sliver of the smile that brightened up Sherlock's world (even in the middle of an apocalypse), but it was enough.

"We can get through this. You, me, and Molly. We can all get through this." Sherlock said, squeezing John's hand reassuringly.  
"But what if this is all for nothing? What if--"  
"John, no. Don't you **dare** think of that. Leave the _what if_ 's alone; you don't need them. All you need is me and Molly."  
John paused his walking for a moment to stare up at Sherlock, nodding a little, wordlessly.  
"I'm here for you, John," Sherlock continued. "Always will be. And I swear I will fix this bloody mess I got us all into, I _swear_ it. Or I will at least die trying."  
"If you die, then I'll definitely kill you."  
Both men laughed and John embraced Sherlock into a tight hug.

Their moment over, the two continued to walk, Molly right behind them. The doctor felt less uneasy and more comforted with his lover by his side. Sherlock felt relieved. He hated dealing with John's Half-Diseased side, and so was glad that he was able to prevent it from taking over John eventually. The hours seemed to go by fast the more the three walked. The wind had died down a good amount, but was still strong and fierce.

They had eventually come to a stop to rest their rapidly-aching limbs, panting from the effort of so much walking. Once they had sat for at least 15 minutes or so, they continued their silent journey. As they moved along, passing by various ruined buildings on one side and wilting trees on the other, John had suddenly and abruptly paused. Sherlock and Molly also stopped, confused.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked.  
"I heard something. . ."  
Sherlock and Molly became quiet, straining their ears to hear whatever it was that John heard, but was unable to. However, after a few more minutes, they were able to make out a yell. It was faint, yet still shattered the silence. Before Sherlock and Molly knew it, John had began to run straight to the sound.  
"John!" they both cried, running after him. The smaller man turned and hurried into the trees, of which the sound was coming from, the detective and pathologist hard on his heels. But he was more occupied with that noise. It sounded like someone could be in danger. Perhaps Dr. Watson could save someone, even in the middle of an apocalypse. It was worth something, at least.

However, when the man reached the voice, he discovered something far worse, his eyes widened to the size of saucers. His legs felt like jelly, and his heart raced with a madness that made his whole body shake. Sherlock and Molly had caught up, quickly stopping just behind John when they, too, recognized the figure.  
"Mary. . ." John whispered. Mary seemed no longer the woman that John knew; in fact, far from it. She stared at John with a hunger in her eyes that only screamed _Diseased_ to Sherlock.  
"Oh God. . ." Molly said under her breath, putting her hands to her mouth. She hadn't properly met Mary herself, but only knew she had been dating the doctor.

"Mary. . ." John repeated, reaching for his girlfriend, who was strangely tied to a tree, and what Sherlock noticed, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Mary struggled in her bindings, growling like a wild animal. "I'll kill you!" she said, glaring sharply at John and trying to snap at him as he stepped close. But he swiftly moved back.  
"No, y-you can't be. . . No. . . Jesus Christ, no!"  
John slowly fell to his knees weakly, looking like a soldier defeated in battle.  
"No. . ."  
Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, John." he said in a low, sad voice.

Even if John loved him, Sherlock knew his flatmate still loved Mary Morstan. Sherlock looked up to see the woman unfazed by her boyfriend's reaction, continually pulling at her restraints desperately. He also noticed John was breathing hard, trying to recollect himself, trying to think. The man slowly closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose.  
"I want to end it, her misery. I-I can't just leave her here like this." he said quietly. Sherlock and Molly exchanged sad glances before taking some steps back wordlessly, allowing John to do what he felt was right. The retired army doctor slowly stood to his feet, ignoring the pain in his muscles.

This was the real pain: seeing his own, dear girlfriend far too gone. Far too gone beyond recognition, nothing more than the rest of those Diseased bastards lurking around out there. And he had to kill her. It still felt like murder, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't; she didn't even recognize him. At all.

John swallowed hard, trying to hold onto what little courage and calmness he had left as he slowly pulled the revolver out of his pocket. Everything about his movements were slow now.  
_Just one shot_ , he told himself. _Make it a quick death for her; one shot to the heart. Twice, if you have to._ But John hoped and prayed that it wouldn't come to that. Both hands held the handgun tightly, one shaking finger on the trigger. Sherlock and Molly stood a distance away, waiting and anxious. Both of John's hands shook uncontrollably, including the finger on the trigger. He felt very pale and sweaty, his breath coming into pants as he stared straight into the face that was no longer lovely, no longer pretty. No longer his girlfriend.

Mary growled in frustration, her eyes cold and dark. Hard and unforgiving. Lustful and murderous. It made John feel sick to his stomach, and his heart filled with sadness. But he didn't know if he was capable of doing this. How many times was he practically forced to shoot his own back in the war? Maybe a few. Sometimes, a couple mates would go mad. The war had that kind of affect. And so, he had no choice but to put them down permanently.

However, this time was different. This wasn't a mate from the war. It was his girlfriend. His bloody _girlfriend_ , whom he planned to propose to. Whom he wanted to become his wife and raise a family with. Despite realizing his love for Sherlock, there was still a place in his heart for Mary Morstan. And now, he had to end that love. Had to create an emptiness in that place in his heart. John's hands trembled more. His body shook. Sherlock and Molly waited patiently and quietly, still anxious.

"Oh, Mary. . ." John whispered. "You were amazing, and brilliant. Absolutely amazing and brilliant. I know you can't exactly understand me or know who I am anymore, but. . . I needed to say something before I. . ." he trailed off, licking his dry, pale lips a few times, and swallowing hard for the second time. Tears glinted in his grief-stricken eyes.  
"God, what am I going to do without you?" he continued, slowly shaking his head as he watched the female blonde growl and struggle.  
"I'm so sorry. . . I love you, Mary. I love you more than you'll ever know."

John then became quiet. He aimed the gun directly at Mary's heart and closed his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath and then slowly pressed his still trembling finger down onto the trigger.


End file.
